The future must be met, however stern and iron it be
by elanne
Summary: Margaret receives a letter from Mr Bell that throws her into despair. She is forced make a choice that wasn't meant to be hers, but the consequences are not hers alone to deal with.
1. Chapter 1

Hi readers. I have never written a North and South fic before but I just love the characters to much that I could not resist. I have tried to remain as true to the book as I can but I am sure elements of the tv series will sneak in as I do so love it. I do not own the characters (of course); I am just a huge fan. I will probably make many mistakes during the course of this story so please do forgive me if I do. Please review and let me know what you think- both good and bad.

Thank you for reading. Elle x

…

Margaret Hale pulled the collar of her dark coat tighter around her neck as she hurried through the bitter Milton wind towards Crampton. Despite the small blooms of daffodils lurking in the few open spaces (the defenceless signs of a more forgiving season battling its way through), the weather was, as usual, dark and unforgiving and the smog circled the town, enveloping the inhabitants of Milton in its depths. She knew she should have left the Princeton District earlier, but she had been helping dear Mary to tend to the Boucher children and time had gotten away from her once again. It had only been when Mary had announced that her father would be home from the Mill soon that she realised that it was nearly six o'clock and had begrudgingly said a hasty goodbye and promised to return soon.

As she passed the ominous gates of Marlborough Mills, Margaret turned her head almost instinctively, unable to resist a glance inside the courtyard, her eyes seeking out the one person she simultaneously least and most wanted to see. The hands were milling in the yard, presumably leaving word for the day and the place was just crowded enough that it was difficult to distinguish his commanding figure amongst the throng of men at a glance and she could not bring herself to look back again.

Thankfully or unfortunately (she was unsure which she really felt), he was either not in the yard with the men or he had no inclination to talk to her. The chatter of the men as they stood around for their pay before leaving the Mill, the memory of his strong presence moving towards her on the other occasions she had previously passed this way and the muffled but distinct baritone of his commanding voice carrying on the wind implied to her that it was probably the latter and a pang of sadness rippled through her at the thought.

So much had changed since that fateful day when she had sought to protect him from the mob of union members and she feared Mr Thornton's opinion of her had since dropped as fast as she had when the stone had pierced her temple. That was the day everything had started to go wrong between them and it had gone steadily downhill since then. Oh why did he have to propose to her? She had been trying hard to see the good in Mr Thornton as he was such a good friend to her father and she had been proud of the way he had listened to her and faced the men man to man. _"_ _I do not wish to_ _possess you_ _; I wish to marry_ _you_ _because I love_ _you_ _!"_ he had said and at the time that had seemed to utterly insulting to her but now she realised that she had been too harsh and had dealt with it all wrong. She hadn't meant to insult him by refusing him but he had obviously been confused about her intentions as had his sister Fanny and the servants if the conversation she had overheard between them as she was coming around from her unconsciousness was anything to go by. She could never accept a man she did not love and she would have thought he could understand that.

And why did he have to then see her at the station with her brother that night- the one indiscretion she could not explain to him or to anyone? Yet despite his obvious distain for her and his position as a magistrate, he had then lied for her, claimed that she was not there that night and everything but his approval of her seemed not to matter so much anymore. She knew he had done it out of friendship for her father, had he not told her that? In fact, he had made it perfectly clear that he had no interest in her whatsoever other than as the daughter of a dear friend. Despite his disinterest in being friends with her as she had hoped, she was grateful to him but now she was indebted to the man whose hand she had refused, whose mother hated her with a passion and who appeared to hate he with equal passion. She was unsure why she cared what his opinion of her was at all, but since he had seen her at the station saying goodbye to Fred, he had avoided her completely (other than to tell her that he had taken on Nicholas Higgins) and, sadly, the company of her father also. However, she tried to convince herself that they two occurrences were unrelated, she knew it was not true. Even after she had refused his proposal he had still called to take lessons with her father. Still, at least her father would not notice the change so keenly as he was staying with Mr Bell, his dearest friend and a scholar, in Oxford.

Finally, she hurried up the cold, stone steps at the front of the house and pushed through the door into the hallway, calling to Dixon as she hastily removed her coat and scarf and hung them nearly on the coat stand in the narrow hallway.

Dixon appeared on the landing above, wiping her hands on the apron she wore around her front: "Miss Margaret, a letter was delivered for you this morning. I've left it on the table in the sitting room." Her figure retreated into some other part of the house. Since the death of Margaret's mother, Dixon had been even more despondent than usual and Margaret was surprised not to have been greeted with some complain or other the moment she stepped through the door.

"Thank you, Dixon." She called up, with a cheer she didn't quite feel and then ran up the stairs eager to read the letter she had no doubt was from her father.

However, the letter resting against some of the mother's trinkets on the side table was not in her father's hand. His writing was small and neat, more of a print than the decorative calligraphy style on the envelope, all loops and flicks and slanted to the right.

To her puzzlement, the envelope was larger than any letter she had ever received and thick, as if several folded pieces of paper were inside rather than the one or two sheets her father had written her previously. Driven by curiosity, she quickly sliced the envelope open with a pen knife and pulled out three separate items, a letter, another envelope addressed to her and, to her dismay, one addressed to Mr Thornton of Marlborough Mills. Both envelopes were written in her father's hand and she had to resist the temptation to forget the letter and open the envelope from her father. Begrudgingly, she moved the two sealed envelopes to the back of the pile and carefully unfolded the letter in the bold, flowing writing. It was dated two days ago and the return address provided was that of Mr Bell in Oxford.

 _Dearest Margaret,_

 _I hope this letter find a you well and not too depressed by the dreadful grey of the Milton skies._

 _Forgive me for my bluntness my dear, but I fear that at a time like this no good can come from delaying what I must relay. It falls to me to impart the sad news that your father passed from this world last night, peacefully and in his sleep. Words cannot express how sorry I am both to have to be the one to impart such sad news and to have been the one with your father in his last hours, rather than yourself. I can assure you that this last week has been such an enjoyable time for me and I am sure your father also. Richard seemed happy and completely relaxed and I don't want you to worry that he was at all uncomfortable. I will see to it that the funeral arrangements are made and that my dearest friend receives the best service to remember him. It is a shame that your father will not be buried with your dear mother but I must think of the practicalities. The funeral will likely be on Tuesday morning but I will contact your male relatives to invite them to attend._

 _I will, of course, come and visit you as soon as I can after the funeral. I have notified your aunt of your father's passing and I am sure she will be up to Milton as soon as she can._

 _Before he died, your father had written you a letter and we had intended to send it to you the next morning. I have included it here in the hope that it's contents can give you some comfort at this time. If I have done wrong then I wholeheartedly apologise, but my conscience will not allow me to deny you of your father's final words to you._

 _Lastly, your father had also written a letter to Mr Thornton which we had also intended to post. I felt it best to send it to you so that you can decide whether you want to pass on whatever your father had intended to say to my tenant or you may rather not. I will leave it to you to decide what is best in this regard and no judgement will be cast by me on this matter whatever you choose._

 _Look after yourself, Margaret and remember that you have many friends and family here to help you at this time._

 _Best wishes,_

 _Your loving godfather, Mr Bell._

Margaret's knees sank beneath her as she fell awkwardly into one of the sitting room chairs. Tears stung her eyes as the magnitude of the sad news Mr Bell's letter contained hit her with an unbearable force. For a moment she sat stunned, tears now falling freely down her still cold cheeks. Papa couldn't be dead! She had seen him barely a week ago alive and fairly well.

For a while she re-read the letter again and again as if the words would somehow change. Surely, she must have misunderstood Mr Bell. Her father was ill, she was under no illusions about that; her mother's death had affected him greatly but she did not think she would have to lose her father so soon, with no warning and without the chance to say goodbye. When he had left with her godfather, he had seemed in excellent spirits and yet now she was seemingly an orphan.

Only when her vision became too blurred to see anything other than distorted shadows did she admit defeat and turn away from that hateful letter, the once flowing writing now prickled and spiked where her tears had fallen and warped the ink. She cast the letter aside to to wipe her eyes and cradle her face in her still gloved hands, the paper hitting the wooden floorboards with a surprisingly loud thud.

First her mother and now her father. How was she ever going to be able to bare this crushing pain? A loud sob escaped her and she leant back into the softness of the chair's cushioned back. It was he father's chair and smelt of him, his peppermint scent now seeming to open the gaping hole in her heart further rather than comforting her in his absence as it had done just this morning. Oh poor Papa. How was she to live without the two most important people in her life?

"Are you alright Miss Margaret? I thought I heard you crying." Dixon bustled into the room, stopping when she caught sight of the crying girl and the discarded items on the floor.

Margaret snapped to her senses and quickly wiped her nose and eyes, trying to dispel the evidence that she had been crying, not wanting Dixon to see her weakness.

"I am just a little out of sorts Dixon, but I will be alright in a moment." She didn't want to tell anyone the contexts of the letter yet. She needed to grieve a little herself before Dixon knew the news. She didn't think she could bare her pity.

It seemed Dixon had other ideas.

"Was it your father's letter, Miss? Did he say something distasteful? No doubt he's loving his time away from this awful place, whilst we suffer here…" the servant prattled on, sitting next to Margaret and resting a reassuring hand on the girl's back throughout her thinly veiled attack on Papa. Dixon had made it more than clear that she disapproved of Mr Hale for bringing the family to Milton and liked to bring it up again as often as she could.

Despite her despair, Margaret still felt the usual prickle of annoyance at the older woman's harsh words. She could think of no other servant who would have the gall to say such a thing but then Dixon had never been a traditional household employee, always close to her mother- annoyingly close in Margaret's opinion. She had always been a little jealous of the way her mother had confided in Dixon things which she kept from her only daughter. Particularly her illness since they moved to Milton. Margaret would never be able to fully forgive her for that.

"Dixon, please do not say that. You are too harsh on Papa." She supposed she would have to tell her since the tears were now starting to fall again. "He-he- well- the letter was not from my father. It was from Mr Bell. He had some sad news to disclose. You see, it seems that father was more ill than we imagined and he- he- died- two nights ago now- so Mr Bell, was just writing to inform me that he won't be returning home this week…" her voice broke as she trailed off, another large sob escaping despite her best efforts.

"Oh, Miss Margaret!" Dixon patted her back gingerly and Margaret prepared herself for the oncoming storm. "How could he go to Oxford and die, leaving you here alone? That man! Your poor mother would be turning in her grave, God bless her. How will we live? We will have to return to London almost immediately. I shall not be sorry to leave this awful place of course, but everything will have to be sold. There is so much to do…"

Margaret wasn't listening. She didn't want to hear her father criticised. She didn't want to hear anything and in some ways felt more alone than ever with despite how close she was in proximity to Dixon.

"Of course, we will have to wait until after the funeral to leave. At least your mother will be with your father again…"

Dixon's words brought her back to reality as Mr Bell's letter re-entered her mind. Her father would be lain to rest in Oxford rather than Milton or Helston. How dreadful for him to be buried so far from Mama, where no-one would visit him! She must contact Mr Bell immediately and implore him to help her have father buried with her mother. If the funeral was to be on Tuesday, just four days from tomorrow then she must act immediately. But a letter would never get there in time. She needed to think and quickly.

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to get away from Dixon and be alone with the letter. She slipped off the sofa and scrabbled on the floor on her hands and knees gathering the letter frantically. She ignored Dixon's exclamations that she would ruin her dress and clasped the letter to her chest. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the small envelope addressed to Mr Thornton which she had cast so carelessly aside and which she had completely forgotten about until this second. What a cruel trick for her to have been thinking about Mr Thornton and his hatred for her not even an hour ago and now here were her father's last written words addressed to him. It rested just on top of the one addressed to her and she snatched them up quickly before Dixon could notice and enquire what they were. They would remain her secret. She wasn't sure whether she would pass the letter onto Mr Thornton yet or not but something inside her didn't want anyone to know about these yet and especially not Dixon who would probably have something to say about it.

"I am sorry Dixon, but I am tired and just want to be alone at the moment so I am going to retire. I know it's only early but I don't think I am going to be much company tonight I am afraid so please don't worry about any food for me." She knew she was being rude but she didn't wait for an answer before rising to her feet and leaving the room. Everything ached as she made her way up the second flight of stairs, as if her muscles knew of the sadness coursing through her veins and had given up on trying.

For the first time since arriving at Crampton, she locked her bedroom door and shut the world and everyone else outside.

…

The cold of her bedroom bit at her skin as the wind whipped around outside, whistling its pain. She had read Mr Bell's letter at least a hundred times now, poured over them for hours and finally the tears had stopped falling. The pain had not dulled even a little since the first time she read it but her body ached with exhaustion, both from the effort of crying and tiredness; it was three thirty in the morning.

Dixon had left her alone other than knocking to offer her a glass of water, which she had refused, and to say goodnight. She supposed that in one regard Dixon had been right earlier. She would indeed be left with no choice but to return to London and depend upon the hospitality of her aunt. The thought did not fill her with the comfort that she thought it would. She longed for the familiar routine of that house in Harley Street but her cousin Edith, was happily married and touring Europe with Captain Lenox and their young son so she would be left with just her Aunt Shaw for company who would undoubtedly spend her time trying to persuade her to marry Henry Lennox. By her aunt's standards he was an excellent match but she just didn't love him.

Oh, her brain felt so muddled. Now that she no longer had the energy to cry, her mind was overcome with worry about the future and she still hadn't been able to bring herself to read the letter from her father. Why would he have also written one to Mr Thornton? She had wondered why numerous times this evening, but still could find no answer that made sense to her. Yes, Mr Thornton was her father's good friend but had only written one other letter to her, his daughter, so why would he write to his friend after only being absent for such a short time? Perhaps his worry for Fred and his safe return to Caditz had driven her father to do so. She would not blame him. There had been multiple times where she had almost sought Mr Thornton out to explain, though she had nearly done so to try and restore his impression of her. Perhaps Papa was as desperate to confide in someone and receive their reassurance as she was.

It was wrong of her but she resented that her father's dying thoughts had been of his friend rather than just her. It was unfair, she knew that. Her father had most likely not known he was going to die so soon and yet that thought added to her grief regardless. Still, she could not withhold a letter her father had intended to send. Should she take Mr Thornton his letter first thing in the morning? In barely a few hours from now he would no doubt be awake and in his office and she could take him the letter and reveal the news. At least he would be forced to talk to her for a moment, but she might have to bear his judgement for what he viewed as her indiscretion again. She might implore him not to think on her so harshly for what he saw at the station and thank him for lying for her. Or she could just ignore it ever happened.

No. She would open hers first and then decide what to do about the other letter.

With trembling hands, she reached for the paper bearing her name, and with her thumb stroked the small writing marked onto the paper- her last touch of her beloved father. She had no letter opener this time and so as carefully as she could she slipped a finger into the edge of the seal and prized the envelope gently open. It smelt of him, his faint peppermint smell, caressing her senses. For a moment when she closed her eyes, she could see him standing there in front of her, well and alive. But the image faded as she opened her eyes again and the same cold dread settled back into her heart. At the sight of his neat print she felt the need to shed her tears again but found that she could not.

 _Dear Margaret,_

 _I must start by saying that I miss you, my daughter, but I am having a marvellous time. Mr Bell and I have visited so many of our old haunts in Oxford and I must confess that I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time. I think you would like Oxford, Margaret, and you really must come and visit sometime, perhaps with me or perhaps with someone else in the future._

 _I hope that Dixon is looking after you well, or rather that you are looking after her, since she does seem to hate Milton so. I had hoped that with time she would see that Milton's people are fair and hardworking and there is beauty to be found wherever you go but I fear that your mother's death has prevented that forever. I think you now have seen it and I hope that you will not hate me for moving our family there._

 _Now that your mother is gone and I am away from you, I find myself contemplating the mortality of men more than ever, particularly my own. Since your mother left us so quickly, I feel the need to make a request of you that I hope you will not hate me for. I know that I am old and becoming ill and I fear that should I die, you would be left entirely alone. Of course, you will always have Fredrick but since returning to England so soon would be detrimental to his safety, I beg of you that when my time comes you do not ask him to return once again. I know you will be alone, but there will always be people there for you. Your Aunt Shaw would happily take you back to London and allow you to live in her house, but I wonder if there is another alternative you would prefer. I feel you have become attached to Milton and the people there and I want to be able to make sure you have another choice should you need it. Please don't be offended by this Margaret and don't fly off the handle but I have often wondered recently whether Mr John Thornton has developed feelings for you- at least as a friend. Perhaps I am an old man reading too much into nothing, but if I was a gambling man, I would bet my life on him caring for you as more than an acquaintance-the daughter of a friend. Indeed, for a while you seemed to be able to have a civil conversation and there are marriages based on less!_

 _I have debated long and hard and decided to write to Mr Thornton and implore him that if anything should happen to me, that if he has any feelings, even if only friendship for you, that he will make you an offer so that you might stay in Milton. I would not ask you to marry someone you have no feelings for my dear, but Mr Thornton is a good man and something tells me you would be happier in Milton than returning to London. Mr Thornton has been such a good friend to me that I am sure he would offer even if he did not have feelings for you, if he felt it was for the greater good. You never were silly enough to fit in with the other young ladies on London society and I would ask that you at least are kind and consider the proposal that I am almost certain will come._

 _I am sorry to have told you all this in a letter, Margaret but if there is one thing that Mr Bell and I have decided whilst we have been in Oxford, it is that we must seize the day and delay no longer. We both have our reasons. I will see you again next week when I return but until then think about what I have written. I am sorry for writing to Mr Thornton without speaking to you first but I felt it only fair that he could think about it for a while too. I don't mean to pressure you but I know that this way if you choose to stay in Milton after I too am gone, you would be looked after by a good man who will respect you, which is all I can ask for as a father._

 _Take care Margaret, and I will see you next week._

 _Your loving Papa._

Margaret didn't think it was possible for anything her father had to say to make her feel worse but she had been proven wrong. Her heart ached as she realised he knew of Dixon's disapproval of his moving the family, that he felt some guilt for it and was asking her forgiveness. It had also dropped the second she had read Mr Thornton's name. Why had her father been having these thoughts? She knew he would not do something to purposely caused her pain but in effectively imploring Mr Thornton to marry her he had caused her pain nonetheless. Now she knew that she should have been open with her father; if only she had told him of the proposal and her subsequent refusal she would not find herself in this dilemma now and would have saved herself a world of extra hurt.

Had Mr Bell known what was written in her father's letter? If so, he surely was trying to be nice by allowing her to read the letter rather than sending the other to its recipient straight away but instead he had put her in the most dreadful position she could imagine. There was now no doubt in her mind what the letter to Mr Thornton contained and no doubt that she could not allow him to ever read it! She would die of shame. After all, he had only recently told her that his 'foolish passion' for her were over and he may as well have added that he now only viewed her with contempt. If she threw the letter away now she would eradicate the problem completely, but if she gave it to its intended recipient…

He wouldn't really propose again, would he? If anything, he would probably hate her more than ever. Previously she had told him he was not a gentleman but now she knew better. He was above all else a gentleman and he would do whatever he could to help her father. Part of her suspected that despite everything he would probably still do all he could to help her too. No matter what she supposed he deserved to know that her father was gone. She picked up the envelope bearing his name and stroked the small letters on the front as she had done her own before opening it. For a moment she simply stared at it as if what was contained would spring into her hand and she could somehow censor the contents, removing any part containing her Papa's request. It was no use- she was going to have to give him the letter. Her father had intended it and if he hadn't died Mr Thornton would have received it by now most likely. If he did propose again she would face that when it came. A choice was what her father had wanted for her- that was all, no obligation. She could only hope that Papa had made that clear and that Mr Thornton would understand.

4 o'clock in the morning. The clock beside her bed struck the early hour with vigour making her jump in surprise. In a few hours she would have to face the music and visit Marlborough Mills regardless of her heart begging her not to. Still clutching the envelope, she finally laid her head on her pillow and pulled the blanket up tightly around her. Pressed tightly against her chest, a simple letter seemed so harmless and yet she knew it would bring a storm in the morning.

Trying to clear her mind and invite sleep in, she closed her eyes and the face of her Papa filled her view, in his element, talking enthusiastically to someone- someone whose face she desperately did not want to see, yet he haunted her broken dreams anyway. Even in her imagination his eyes displayed contempt for her.

When she woke up in the night, disoriented and shivering from the cold, she was still clinging tightly to the letter at her breast and her pillow was wet with tears.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello readers! I hope you have all had a fabulous week. Thank you so much to those of you who have read, favourited, followed the first chapter. Also, a massive thank you to those who have reviewed! I will try and reply to thank you individually as I feel it is only polite to. For now, I will just answer a couple of questions: Kfkyle, I am certainly not intending to abandon my work and have the rest of the story mapped out (for once) so please be assured I will finish it! To Kss and others who have asked how often I will update, I shall do my best to update once a week, hopefully on a Saturday or Sunday. If I don't, I promise I will asap, but something will probably have come up at school and stolen me away. I hope you like this chapter but please do review and let me know either way.

Elle. x

Morning dawned in Milton bringing none of the light and natural beauty of Helstone, save for the quiet, hopeful song of a bird, carrying into Margaret's small room from somewhere outside the window. If she closed her eyes and imagined hard enough, she could convince herself that she was back there once again, her mother and father with her as she lay in the grass outside their cottage, under the warm caress of the sun. Her parents sat sipping tea, chatting about nothing in particular and worries did not exist or perhaps it was that nothing mattered. For one lingering moment, she felt as though she would never want for anything else ever again, if she could only return to that second in time for just a short while, until the blurred figure of a man, shadowed and foreboding added a dark splotch to her picturesque painting. He was walking towards her and ruining the colours of the scenery, becoming ever clearer until the face of Henry Lennox invaded her view and jolted her awake. Even that memory, the idyll of Helstone, her believe in the paradise of the past, was polluted now and could bring her no comfort.

At some point she had fallen asleep, true sleep- disturbed but not broken-and the letter had slipped from the clutched hand at her breast. For a panicked moment, she clasped her chest and grabbed frantically at the bed sheets beneath her, but there was no trace of that small printed writing. She turned, desperate, missing its presence before stilling. A thought struck her, halting her movements. What if she never found it? Perhaps her desperation for this letter, this problem, to be removed from her had simply disappeared like she had wished for it to last night? Her father could not blame her for failing to deliver it if she no longer had it through no fault of her own, could he? "Your father would never know anyway", her mind tried to tell her, but that thought was more upsetting than his being angry for keeping the letter from its intended recipient. The guilt- that stomach churning dread that was already creeping back upon her, snapped her from her thoughts and back to the future.

As if it could sense her internal turmoil and wanted to taunt her, she suddenly saw the white parchment paper out of the corner of her eye. Somehow, it had been knocked onto the floor next to the bed, or had she thrown it in her sleep? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she needed to get rid of it as soon as possible.

A glance at the clock beside her bed told her it was 6:15am and Mr Thornton would surely be arriving at the mill soon, as would the workers. It would be best to arrive just after them, she reasoned, to avoid being swept up in the throng as they headed to work. She supposed it would only be proper for her to wear black now that she was even more in mourning than she was before, so with effort she dragged her still fatigued body across the room and selected a black dress from the wardrobe, lined fetchingly with a simple white lace adorning the rounded neckline and the cuffs of the long sleeves. It was a simple dress but not simple enough. A sigh escaped her as she realised she would need to call Dixon to assist her with the corset and buttons on her gown as, no matter which way she tried to bend, she could not manage the task alone. No doubt she would want to know where her mistress was going but Margaret could deal with that if it meant she could get this over and done with and think about how to contact Mr Bell.

She made her way to the chamber door and poked her head around the corner. A ray of light led a clear path to the kitchen down stairs and the dim sounds of Dixon moving about travelled up to her.

"Dixon?" She called, just loud enough to be heard over the muffled clatter and the noise ceased before Dixon appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Mistress?" she called, her surprise evident: "I'd have thought you'd want to be asleep for a while yet, distressed as you were last night. Are you wanting me to bring your breakfast upstairs?" Concern crossed her face and Margaret felt the sting of guilt as she remembered how she had run from the servant last night.

"No. Dixon. No breakfast please. I just need you help to lace me into my clothes and then I will be going out. I have something I must do"

Dixon did not reply but came marching up the stairs and into Margaret's room before placing her hand on the girl's forehead as though checking for a fever and tutting.

"You are running a temperature. Miss Margaret, you cannot go out at this hour. Not when you're grieving and ill. That's how it started for your poor mother and your father didn't even notice. I will not let this one pass me by. You must go back to sleep." She tried to replace the gown Margaret had selected and push her young mistress towards the bed but she would not be dissuaded.

"Dixon, I must.." she tried to squirm away from her cold hands but Dixon was a force to be reckoned with.

"What on earth would you need to go out at this unearthly hour for anyway, Miss?" The servant was adamant to get her back into bed, slowly cornering her back towards her target.

"If you must know, I need to inform someone on my father's death." Margaret dodged her determinedly.

"Then write to them, Miss Margaret!" Dixon exclaimed, straightening the ruffled bed covers. "The postal service will suffice I am sure."

"No Dixon, it will not!" Her voice was loud, louder than she had expected but she needed to hurry: "please do not treat me like a child. I am not ill. I must go and attend to some business as soon as possible. All I ask of you is that you help me to dress and then when I return I may be persuaded to try some breakfast if it would please you." It had come out harsher than she had intended for it to and she instantly felt guilty again but she had no time to lose.

Dixon looked at her as though she was about to argue, before muttering indistinctly as she laced corsets and helped Margaret into the chosen dress.

"How would you like your hair miss?" Dixon asked, gathering hair pins and a brush and ushering Margaret towards the dressing table. A glance at the clock told her that it a quarter to seven and she must hurry if she wished to speak to Mr Thornton at the start of the day, before he became inundated to work and resented her all the more for taking up his time.

"Leave it, Dixon. I will deal with it. Don't fuss so, I brushed it before you came in." She halted the older woman's arguments and shielded the bed as she gathered the letter and slipped it into her pocket.

"Very well, Miss." Dixon replied, clearly hurt and left to return downstairs. Margaret sighed in relief.

Quickly, she grabbed some hair pins and, instead of her usual elaborate hairstyle, pinned some of the curls from the front on each side back and left the rest down as she had often done when she was a girl; then she ceased the letter, hurried downstairs and grabbed her coat off the hook. She did not pause to put it on, instead dashing out into the cold, half running as she tried to pull it on without stopping, and headed towards Marlborough Mills. It was still dark outside and the street lamps were dimly lit but the candles were dying, their light gradually giving out. Under normal circumstances she may have been nervous to be walking alone this early and without a chaperone, but she ploughed on. Something as silly as a chaperone for safety didn't seem to matter anymore, all that mattered was speaking to Mr Thornton and speaking to her godfather. Buried inside her pocket the envelope lay, still clutched in her hand for warmth, her thumb and first finger caressing the smoothness of the parchment all the while, its silky texture broken by the ink markings for her father giving her comfort as she battled on. She was more than half way there before she realised she had left without a bonnet or scarf and her long hair was flying freely in the wind, long and dark against her pale skin and probably ruining what little effort she had put into fixing it. What shreds of vanity lay beneath her grief and nervousness began to regret not having Dixon fix it for her before leaving. Still she had no-one to impress, or rather she did not have the ability to impress anyone it appeared, so she supposed it didn't matter.

In the distance, the Mill towered before her unexpectedly, as if it had sneaked up on her and she stopped still in wonder at the sheer scale of it. There was an ominous power contained within the walls and everything about it seemed to reflect the power of the man she was here to see. The last of the workers were making their way into the building at the far end of the courtyard, and the time was here for her to act if she wished to. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head as high as she could and strode towards the door, memories of her first trip inside the mill itself still vivid in her mind.

As she approached the door, the man holding it- Johnson, she thought his name was- hurriedly removed his hat and bowed to her. His face triggered a memory of staring out at a sea of faces. Surely, he was one of the crowd of union workers who had stormed this very square not so log ago?

"How can we help you miss?" he asked, clearly uncomfortable to see her there.

"I need to speak with Mr Thornton. Alone." She tried to keep her voice level but it wavered nonetheless, cruelly betraying her. For a moment, she thought he was going to refuse her entry, but thankfully he did not question her, instead gesturing up a small staircase towards a room above with a window. A small stream of light peeked through, a candle flickering, indicating he was there.

"Thank you." She whispered, her pretence of strength abandoned as she steadily climbed the staircase towards her fate. It was still so cold inside that she could see her breath in front of her face, giving away how quickly and deeply she was breathing but her mind pushed her feet onwards, guided by that flickering beacon. Now nothing but a wooden door stood as a barrier between her and Mr Thornton, yet she found she could not knock. All the words she had practiced in the dead of night, whilst sleep had evaded her, had disappeared from her mind, and instead she found she had nothing to say. Before she could turn her back on the door she braced herself and gave two confident knocks on the wood and heard his answering:

"Come in."

Even the handle was cold as she tentatively opened the door and stepped inside his office, turning her back to where she knew he would be sitting as she closed the door behind her, ensuring that she could not run. The quiet scratching of a quill on paper told her he had not yet looked up from his work before she even saw him. His head was burrowed over a stack of paper, pen still scratching furiously- the man whose respect she had lost and whose second proposal she may now have to turn down- and tears sprung to her eyes; tears for her father, for her loss of standing in his eyes and pity for her current predicament started to silently seep out as she stood waiting for his judgement.

"Good morning, Mr Thornton." She could not bear the suspense of waiting any longer.

At her words, the pen clattered onto the table, where it rolled off the edge and onto the floor and the man himself half leapt to his feet, astonishment crossing his features as he realised who stood in front of him.

"Miss Hale!" His tone was one of incredulity and for what seemed like a lifetime, he simply stared at her. She could not fail to miss the way his eyes swept over her appearance from the hem of her skirt to her hair and something shifted behind them as his gaze settled on the trail of tears, leaving a glistening trail down her slightly flushed face. As if an involuntary reaction, his arm flinched just slightly, not quite a movement, but a shadow of one and over so quickly she could not be sure she had seen it. What was he thinking? Well, what else could he think, other than that she had gone mad! Appearing in his office at 7 o'clock in the morning, improperly dressed for the weather and extremely dishevelled was hardly common practice. She had no idea whether there was etiquette one was supposed to follow when visiting the workplace of someone you have refused to marry, but she supposed she should be expected to wait for him to speak.

However, the silence dragged on, her heart beginning to pound faster with each passing second of anticipation. When she could not stand the tension any longer, or the intensity of his gaze, she broke the silence: "I am sincerely sorry to disturb you when you're working, Mr Thornton…" she broke off as her eyes met his and he held the look, peering deep into her very soul.

His shock was gone now and the scowl she had come to associate with him since their eyes had held each other at the station settled firmly back in its usual place as his eyes flicked away. "How can I help you, Miss Hale?" The uncaring tone stung and it took Margaret a moment to gather her thoughts. She wasn't sure how she had expected him to react but it seemed that cold indifference was the least preferable option.

Now the time was here to part with the letter, it seemed to burn her leg through her dress pocket and her undergarments beneath. Returning her hand to her pocket, Margaret's fingers caressed the offending envelope once more, before pulling it free along with all it contained. Those words from her father, the words that would likely cause so much destruction for at least one person, were released and now it was too late to go back. Mr Thornton's eyes were settled on her grip and he knew of their existence, but he still did not speak. Margaret too focussed her eyes downwards on the last piece of her father as she wiped the escaped tears from the path they had carved in her cheeks.

"Mr Thornton, I didn't mean to interrupt but I felt I should bring you this letter from my father in person. He had intended to post it to you, I believe, but now will be unable to and it has ended up in my possession." Her voice did not waver as it had downstairs, building her confidence. She held the letter out in front of her, her arm extended as far as it would reach without stretching; she would make him come to her to collect it. If he was going to be cold and detached, then she would be too.

At first, he did not move, but his eyes returned to her face and she was glad. She would not meet his eyes but at least he might not notice that despite her pretence at confidence and composure there was a definite tremble to her arm, an undisguisable sign of her discomfort.

Slowly he moved out from behind the desk separating them and approached the source of her worries. As he reached his own arm out to take what she offered, his hand brushed hers and she snatched hers back, surprised by the sudden contact, prompting him to falter and the letter, to fall to the floor.

Without a thought for decorum, Margaret knelt down to retrieve it but was stopped by his voice, judgement seeping through his words; "Do not trouble yourself, Miss Hale. I would not want to inconvenience you further." She watched him as he bent to retrieve it and furiously tried to stop the tears, which had stubbornly started to fall again to no avail. Ashamed she turned away and started towards the door. She had done her duty and could escape. Now the letter was his problem and she would wait to see whether he would respond in the way she feared he would or do nothing and she would never hear of the matter again.

Before she could reach for the handle, he stepped between her and her target, blocking any hope of leaving unscathed any further. He was close- too close and her face was no more than a few inches away from his chest, close enough that she could see the intricate stitching of the seams on his white shirt, smell the cotton and something else, a heady almost wood-like smell. It was the type of smell she could have guessed he would have, if asked, masculine and far from unpleasant. She had never before considered how Mr Thornton would smell and there was something very intimate about knowing. How easy it would be for another girl to lose herself for a moment in that smell and lean into him but she would not.

"Please let me pass, Mr Thornton!" her voice was quiet now but determined. Why was he prolonging this? She had given him the letter, surely, she should be left in peace now? If her father had only known that this is what she and Mr Thornton had come to, bare civility to each other, he would never have written the letter. She was sure of it.

"Miss Hale, why are you crying?" His tone was less harsh this time and Margaret found the courage to look up and assess his expression. It was cautious, guarded but the harsh edge of his jaw was slightly softened and she thought she could see flecks of genuine concern deep within the darkness of those eyes, seeping through as though he was censoring himself.

How could she possibly explain why? She wasn't even sure why anymore. Of course it was because of her father, but so much more besides.

"I am just upset about my father."

"Your father? Is he alright, Miss Hale?" Concern was evident in his voice now and Margaret realised what she had done. In her haste to pass on the responsibility of the letter, she had failed to convey the more important reason for her visit, instead cryptically passing on a letter that he presumably thought her father could have delivered himself.

"My father is dead, Mr Thornton."

"Dead?"

He had stepped closer to her now and she found she could not look up at him without stepping back and her feet didn't seem to want to.

"Yes. He died a few days ago in Oxford, whist staying with his dear friend, Mr Bell."

Silence settled over them and all that could be heard was the muffled sounds of the machines working away in the warehouse below and the shouts of the men instructing the workers.

To her dismay a small sob escaped her, breaking the relative quiet and bringing the reality of her situation crashing down on her. The room seemed too small, too cold and she couldn't breathe. She was struggling for breath and needed to get out but even if the door was not blocked she was not convinced her legs would carry her.

Blinded by tears, she felt rather than saw his arms circle around her and pull her in to him. It was gentle and not fully committed, barely touching her and then allowing a purposeful space between them. In her confusion and as a result of her blurred vision, she unwittingly closed the gap, resting her head against his chest. The cotton of his shirt felt surprisingly thin beneath her cheek and she could feel his heartbeat-loud and erratic. His arms tightened around her then, until she was completely encased by them. One was softly stroking her hair, which tumbled town her back to her waist, his hand following the line of it down from her neck, which seemed to calm his heartbeat to a steady rhythm, commanding her own to slow. His chin was resting on the top of her head and as her sobs ceased she became acutely aware that this was by far the closest she had been to any man, closer than she's been to her own father in recent years, and completely inappropriate. When his hand's path reached the small of her back it stilled, hovering there as if afraid to go lower, snapping her back to reality. Numerous women, her mother, her aunt, Edith and numerous nannies had touched her hair before, but never like this and never a man. A crashing realisation hit her and her sobs instantly ceased. Whatever spell had been cast was broken and she abruptly pulled back; that simple action was beyond comforting, it was bordering on intimate and she should not have let him do that. What she had done, albeit accidental, had been unwise and unfair of someone who had already refused one proposal from the man she had just been pressed against, and who had just presented him with a letter imploring the same man to offer again.

"Please don't let him read anything into my actions." She thought desperately, taking two full steps back, before addressing him this time from a healthy distance.

"Mr Thornton, I am inordinately sorry. I didn't mean to… well… in normal circumstances, I would never have done that… allow you... to do that."

He visibly flinched as she said 'you' before fixing her with a hard stare again, his jaw set as sternly as before.

"No, Miss Hale. I knew that you wouldn't and didn't require you to say it but thank you for leaving me with no doubt whatsoever."

How had she offended him again? It was true- she wouldn't normally have done that and how could he expect her to? Did he think it was personal because she had said she wouldn't have allowed him? She meant to any man of course, but she supposed that as he was determined to hate her, he would have taken offense at anything.

She stepped around him and placed her hand on the door handle.

"Wait." Her hand still clasping the handle, she paused but did not turn to face him.

"I am sorry for your loss, Miss Hale. I regarded your father as a dear friend, my dearest friend and I shall miss him terribly. If I can be of any assistance to you, please do not hesitate to ask. I will do whatever you need from me." She knew his words were sincere but his voice had resumed its air of detachment.

Sadly, she turned back to him, meeting his gaze for a final time, pleased when he held hers.

"I know you will, Mr Thornton. My father was right. You are in every way a gentleman."

She could only hope that he could see the truth in her words, how ardently she believed them. He nodded in response and handed her a handkerchief from his jacket pocket before turning away himself and returning to his desk. Margaret dabbed at her eyes and nose, which had inconveniently started streaming too, before placing it in her pocket, intending to wash it before returning it to him.

Mr Thornton had resumed his place at his desk and picked up his pen from earlier for a few seconds until he paused. Something had caught his attention and he reached his hand forward, picking up the item from his desk- the letter from her father. She supposed he had placed it there earlier, when she had attempted to leave the first time. As he moved to open it, she wretched the door wide and left the room as quickly as she could. Being there when he opened it would be unbearable. Lifting her skirts, she ran down the wooden stairs to the factory floor and past the worker on the door out into the courtyard. It was nearly empty, still too early for deliveries and too late for any of the hands to be arriving so no-one else would see her.

The day had fully begun now and despite the absence of the sun, the earlier wind had stilled in place of the steady pattering of raindrops, bouncing off the cobbled road. Pulling her collar higher, as was her custom in this place, Margaret walked quickly across the courtyard. She was about to approach the large gates to the mill, when she felt an uncomfortable prickle across the exposed skin on the back of her neck and shivered at the strong impression she was being watched. Turning slowly, she knew just where to look. Her gaze flew back towards the Mill and upwards to where the window to Mr Thornton's office sat, but to her surprise, he was not there- the window was dark and empty and the reality of how isolated she truly was settled in the pit of her stomach. She was about to turn back when a shadow caught her eye. A dark figure stood at the casement of a window in the adjoining house, watching her closely, like a raven. Mrs Thornton's disapproval transmitted across the space between them like acid penetrating through all it touched and Margaret turned her back to it and ran, eager to be away from her poison.

…

Crampton seemed so very far away as she sought to walk quickly through the rain. No more tears fell and she felt the harsh prickle of anger at herself, and humiliation, for having cried in front of Mr Thornton. Obviously, she had known her task would be difficult, but at least it was done and now she was eager to be home. However, without her parents there, Crampton no longer felt like home. That house was just an empty shell, a place to shield her from the rain. It would still hold comfort for her; she had memories of her parents there but she couldn't stay there alone and nor did she want to. If only Edith was in England. She was sure her cousin would have come up to stay with her right away.

Rain could be beautiful when looked at from the right perspective. It was not the first time the thought had struck her, but amongst so much turmoil and sadness, the simplicity of rain as it fell unhindered from the darkening clouds above claimed her attention as if her world did not sit shattered into pieces at her feet. For the first time since she had read Mr Bell's letter, her mind felt clear and, although the sadness threatened to crush her, she realised that the world would go on without her parents and without Mr Thornton's approval. For now, though, the sky was crying with her and the streets looked better for it as the dark stains in the road and pavement began to be washed clean.

Realisation flooded over her. To stop the tide that was destined to sweep her up in its waves, she would simply have to ride out the inevitable crests. As a result of the morning's events, she was certain of three things- three things that she believed with every fibre of her being, as strongly as her belief in God or in Fredrick's innocence. One, she would never allow herself to cry in front of Mr Thornton again- not if she could help it. Two, despite his resentment for her, despite how much he wished to think the worst of her in every situation, he would propose to her again. She was unsure before, desperate to believe that he would not be so foolish but deep down she had known instantly that her hope was in vain. Now she saw it for what it was, it was purely a question of when, not if. He was going to sacrifice himself to her cruel knife again, despite what it would do to him and what it would do to her. She had seen it in his face as she stepped away from him, rejecting him again, even though he did not yet know what he would read, and could not even have considered it. Three, there was only one answer she could give and she would give it. All she could do was continue in the hope that he would understand that her father had merely meant to give her options- another choice, the chance to stay in Milton _if_ she wished it, not a death sentence.

Did she wish it? If there was another way for her to remain here, would she? Certainly, she would miss this place, the place she had originally hated, so different from her idyllic Helstone and the frivolities of London society. Then again, her mother was here. Even if she did not stay, if her fate was to return to London, she would do everything in her power to make sure her Papa was buried with her mother.

She was tired. So tired of life and its harsh hand, tired of worrying about something that she had no power to stop and tired of having no power over her own situation. All too clearly, she saw what she must do. For now, she must wait and hope that those she would hurt in the process would forgive her.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello readers! Firstly, I am sorry I am a full week later than I said with this chapter! It ended up being a very busy couple of weeks and time seemed to get away from me. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. It is a little longer than usual to try and make up for my lateness. The next chapter is nearly written so should be up quickly this time.

Hope you enjoy it. Elle x.

…

Milton's streets glistened as the first glimmers of sun began to seep through the thick layer of grey clouds and Margaret could not help but smile a little in response. Her glimpse of happiness was short lived as she rounded the corner towards the house that, until yesterday, she had thought of as home came into view. In such a small time, she would have to say goodbye to that house forever and the few happy memories it clung to.

Margaret was wet through at this point and shivering, her body powerless to resist the chill seeming into her bones. Her lose hair was now dripping wet and slicked flat to her face and neck. Oddly, she had found the rain comforting, rather than the nuisance she usually found it, and as the ferocity of the downpour had eased a little, she had taken a longer route home, pausing to visit her mother in the small graveyard at the top of the hill. She could not say how long she had stood there, sad to see none of the flowers she had placed just yesterday on her way to visit Mary and the Boucher children had remained unscathed by the weather. Yet, the time alone to think had left her feeling a small but firm flicker of hope that everything would be alright. All she needed to do was focus on contacting Mr Bell and making arrangements to have her father buried in Milton with her mother, where he belonged. Poor mother. If she could not put right her father's burial, who would visit either of her parents if she had to return to London? The weather, however, had no thought for her solace, it's short lived mercy coming to an abrupt end as the heavens opened once again.

In London, the rain would have led to the streets Margaret frequented remaining bare, but in Milton the usual bustle of people had started to form and within an hour, the place would be a hive of activity. Margaret weaved her way through the last few people blocking the street and climbed the steps to her front door, wondering as she did so how many more times she would be here to complete the task. To her relief, the door was unlocked providing much needed sanctuary from the treacherous weather. As she stepped into the doorway, she removed her soaked coat, relieved that she had remembered it in her rush that morning and hung it delicately on the hook. She smiled sadly at the sight of the dark, tweed hat hanging next to it on the row of hooks, a favourite of her father's. Already her imagination struggled to see him wearing it, despite only having seen him do so a week ago and her heart ached at the thought. Indeed, as she tried to recall her mother's face she found that it was not as clear as she would hope, the details of her appearance hard to recall- shaded around the edges. Mentally, she made a note to seek out any likeness of her parents, to help her to remember them, before disposing of or selling her parents' belongings. The temptation was too much and she reached out tentatively to remove the hat from its hook, just to touch it and breathe her father in as she had done last night in his chair.

"Miss Margaret! You'll catch your death of a cold. What were you thinking, roaming the streets in this weather? You've been gone for a couple of hours!" Dixon appeared in doorway to the kitchen, apron back in place and looked at her despairingly. Margaret flinched, embarrassed at being caught and her hand fell quickly back to her side. Luckily Dixon did not seem to have noticed, her attention now focused on untying her apron strings from behind her back.

Margaret's teeth chattered slightly as she responded: "I'm sorry, Dixon. I just needed time alone to think." Perhaps the rain had soaked through her clothing more thoroughly than she had realised, if the steady pitter-patter of water hitting the floor from her skirts was anything to judge.

She could not miss the judgemental trail of Dixon's eyes along her appearance, from her slicked hair to her soaked skirts or her sigh of disapproval and the roll of her eyes. "Come Miss, I think you'd better change out of those clothes" was all that she said but so much more was implied. Leaving no time for Margaret to argue, Dixon grabbed her arm and began to pull her further into the house. Resigned and aware that she probably deserved at least a portion of Dixon's distain, she allowed the maid to guide her up the stairs and usher her into her still cold chamber. There was no point in arguing with her anymore, and in all honesty, Margaret had noticed that her dress had become heavier and the collar felt wet and uncomfortable around her neck.

Despite her compliance to the older woman's will, Dixon seemed to be under the impression that it would be unwise for her to be left alone and she remained in the room, hovering a few metres away. Carefully Margaret changed, the cold air making her shiver more than ever as it hit her skin. Dixon tutted at Margaret's shivering and made her way to Margaret's wardrobe, exclaiming dramatically when a brief look inside revealed a lack of clean black dresses to change into.

"Miss Margaret, this is all my fault! I had no idea you would be needing black again so soon. Perhaps it would be wise to go to the dress makers immediately and purchase another…"

She was talking to herself more than Margaret and Margaret didn't bother to answer, instead rifling through the remaining clothes and selecting a navy-blue dress. It wasn't traditional mourning clothes but since she wasn't planning on going out again, who would see her other than Dixon? Only one person. It was also a little inappropriate in style to be wearing out whilst in mourning, with a more daring, square neckline that revealed her collar bones and much more skin than was necessary for a day dress. In happier times, Edith had once told her that no man could resist her in that dress, which may have thrilled her just a little if her cousin hadn't looked meaningfully across the room at Henry Lennox as she said it. The memory momentarily made her want to swap it for something else. However, it was the darkest dress she owned, other than the currently unwearable black ones. And it was long sleeved, which, since there appeared to be no fire currently burning in the house, was the most sensible choice. Besides, just because Mr Thornton's call would not be entirely wanted did not mean that she should not make an effort to look like she at least appreciated his visit.

"But Miss Margaret, it isn't black!" Dixon exclaimed. "What will people think?" Her expression was one of such horror that Margaret could not help but giggle a little. Such a look being prompted by the colour of a dress seemed rather silly to her, but she supposed she must not understand the severity of the situation.

"Don't worry Dixon, I am not going out again today and if anyone was to come to call I would simply explain that I was caught in the rain and have no other black dresses available." She tried to reassure her but Dixon's unchanged expression implied her words had not had the desired effect. Margaret's limbs stubbornly refused to get warm and now she was struggling to control the shivering wracking her body. Dixon did not look happy but after a concerned look at the shivering girl, she helped her into the dress anyway and began the extensive task of buttoning her into the garment.

"Will you at least eat some breakfast now, though you may as well eat lunch instead at this point?" She asked, thinly veiled despair hidden in her tone.

"Yes, Dixon. I did promise I would and so I shall." Margaret replied, and was rewarded with a smile. She knew she was still on edge and may not actually eat anything, but she would try to please the older woman.

"Your mother would want me to look after you Miss, and that means making sure you are not galivanting off into the rain at unearthly hours in the morning, or forgetting to eat, no matter how upset you are." Dixon looked at her with a gaze of such pity and Margaret wanted to argue- to tell her that she didn't need looking after but she held her tongue. Dixon was just trying to help and currently was all the permanent familiarity she had in the world.

"Thank you, Dixon." She replied and she meant it. Perching on the bed, she watched as Dixon disappeared from the room, still muttering to herself as she did so. Instinctively, her hand went to its resting place in her pocket, a slight feeling of disappointment flickering over her as her had noticed the absence of her father's letter to Mr Thornton, and unsure what to do without it, she settled both in her lap just as Dixon returned with some soup. To her dismay, Dixon did not leave her with the soup but instead took a seat on her dressing room stool watching her. Margaret waited, aware that she must have an ulterior motive. She had a feeling it wouldn't take her long to find out what it was.

"Who did you need to inform of your father's death, Miss? Surely they would not have been offended to hear of it by letter rather than in person?"

There is was. She supposed she would have to tell her who she had been to see, especially as that very man was likely to make an appearance in the near future. Margaret did not answer immediately, instead turning her attention to sampling the soup.

"As Mr Thornton was such a dear friend to my father, I felt it only proper to tell him in person. Father would have wanted it…" She resisted the urge to defend her actions further by taking another sip of soup.

"Mr Thornton?" Dixon's surprise was clear. "That man took up too much of your father's time when your mother was dying."

Margaret didn't know what to say to that and so kept quiet, continuing with her soup. To her surprise Dixon did not speak again until she was finished, choosing to watch her instead.

Sighing in defeat, the older woman stood from her seat by the dressing table and picked up a hairbrush and hair pins.

"Will you let me do your hair now, Miss?"

Margaret supposed her hair must look a fright. If anyone was to call later, she really ought to look at least half decent and so she nodded her assent, placed her tray to the side and crossed the small room to sit in front of the dressing table. She had not been wrong about her hair. The mirror showed it was sticking up at odd angles and she looked distinctly how she imagined a drowned rat must look- parts of it were dried and parts still wet, for a start. Gently, Dixon removed the pins she had added earlier and brushed her chestnut hair through. Dixon's hands were small and moved swiftly, having fixed Margaret's hair numerous times and there was nothing comforting about her touch, just efficiency. It was entirely different to Mr Thornton's slow and considered strokes of a few hours ago that, for a moment, had felt so comforting and made her feel less alone in the world. She flushed scarlet at the memory of how she had allowed herself to be reckless and desperately tried to force herself to focus on something, anything, other than the feeling of guilt that had rushed through her as she realised she had given him a false representation of herself yet again and she felt heat rising to her cheeks at the memory. Would he do that again when he came to offer himself to her again? She hoped not. She wracked her brains for something else to focus on, but the feeling of his hands on her hair, barely touching her back under the hair would not leave her.

"You look very flushed, Miss Margaret. I did warn you this morning that you had a temperature coming. Surely, I was right?" Dixon's words, pulled her from her thoughts and her cheeks betrayed her by flushing an even deeper shade, closer to crimson.

"Perhaps you were." She replied, her hands flying to cover her hot cheeks. She was pleased for the excuse and received a self-satisfied smile in return from the older woman. Thankfully Dixon returned to her task, a smug smile on her features, and the flush from her cheeks began to pale.

"Dixon?" She asked after she was sure she had returned to her usual complexion and was answered by a questioning tilt of the head in the mirror.

"If I go back to London with Aunt Shaw, what will you do? I won't be able to afford to pay you so you may have to find another family." Her voice cracked a little, as the reality of her question hit her.

Dixon grimaced as if the thought was unpleasant to her and made a dismissive noise.

"Of course not!" Her tone was incredulous. "I served your mother for so many years and I loved her. I will not abandon her daughter. When we return to London, I will be happy to go with you."

"You don't wish to stay here then?" she asked tentatively, knowing the answer before it came.

"No, Miss Margaret, I will return to London with you."

Margaret nodded gratefully. London. She knew that her aunt would probably allow Dixon to come if she asked it and the idea of having her- the closest thing she had to family with her was comforting. The thought of being back amongst the things she knew was comforting too but the endless entertaining and society balls was not. They seemed so dull and meaningless when people like Nicholas and Mary and the Boucher children could eat for a month on the cost of one society ball. Oh, how she missed Fred and wished he could be there with her. They could have faced the world together. But her father had been right in his letter- she could not ask him to come home again so soon. It would be far too dangerous but her heart ached to see him nonetheless. If she wrote to him now and told him of Papa's death, he would return- she was sure of it. No. It would be better to wait a few weeks and sort things out and then write to him in Spain.

"There. All done, Miss Margaret. I will leave you in peace." Dixon patted her shoulder before moving away to pick up her wet clothes from their pile on the floor and exit the room, closing the door behind her. Margaret's eyes followed her but she remained sitting. Now that she was alone again, she found that solitude was the last thing she wanted. She did not want to face the worry of how to contact Mr Bell, or what she should do now both parents were gone. She wanted distraction. Internally, she cursed herself for promising she would be staying in for the rest of the day and condemning herself to hours alone with her thoughts.

As if unable to resist its compulsion, Margaret again sought out her father's letter and, despite her dressed state, she swung her legs and skirt into bed under the covers, just to try and keep warmer. Settled, her eyes raked over the letter, searching for any form of comfort it might give. She was still shaking, still unable to get warm and the letters jumping uncontrollably in her hand. Somehow though, this time the letter did offer her comfort in some small way. Certainly, it confirmed that her father had been at peace when he had died, thinking that he had righted his worries about her and enjoying the confidence of his dear friend, Mr Bell. Mr Bell's correspondence had also lost its edge and Margaret, had found that after so much worry over what to do about persuading her godfather to go to the trouble of moving her father's body to Milton so he could be buried with her mother, the answer seemed to be crystal clear to her as she re-read the correspondences for the fiftieth time. Her mind was made up, settled now and finally she allowed herself to slump down further under her blankets and rest her head. Sleep claimed her quickly and all thoughts of her problems disappeared.

…

Sunlight streamed through the green leaves of the canopy above her head as Margaret walked the familiar path from the house she had shared with her parents in Helstone. The soft but cheerful cheeping birds in the trees seemed to greet her good morning as she carried on her journey towards the meadow where she so often sat in the midday sun to read. This place was truly glorious, butterflies, delicately fluttering along their path, rabbits in the distance, scattering as they became aware of her presence and Margaret would have been content to stay there forever. In the distance, a figure entered her view. It was walking towards her with purpose, as if she was its destination. As it drew nearer, Margaret could see that it was the figure of a man, one that she recognised. He was tall, much taller than her and his stance was commanding, dominating. She started to rise to meet him, looking down as she brought her hands to the floor to push herself up. Her dress was white and frilly and her hands covered to the wrist by white silk gloves. For some reason, she had expected the man to frown but instead he was smiling; the act transformed his features and rounded off the edges of his sharp dominant aura. He came close still, now only leaving a few inches between them- close enough that she could smell a faint hint of sandalwood radiating from the heat of his body. Cautiously, the man moved to wrap his arms around her much smaller frame but Margaret pushed him away, stepping back and putting distance between herself and him.

Above them, the clouds instantly darkened and at the determined crack of thunder, she turned and ran. She did not turn back, plunging into the thick coverage of trees instead, desperate to find her way home. Yet she knew she had gone the wrong way.

"I cannot leave. I will have to wait until she is ready to see me." The man's voice carried through the trees to where she kept moving, muffled but still there, quiet but loud enough for her to know she could not escape him.

The path to her home had been in the other direction, she had known that for a while now but she could not turn back. She had gone too far and now had no choice but to keep going.

…

"Miss Margaret?"

Darkness surrounded her. Margaret blinked, trying to make sense of her surroundings but the room remained an impenetrable black. Despite having clearly fallen asleep, she wasn't sure she felt too much more rested, but forced herself to swing herself legs over the edge of her small bed and open the drapes at the window behind. It was still cloudy outside and the evening had begun to fall over the now emptying street. A glance at the clock beside her bed told her it was five thirty in the evening. She had slept for hours!

"Miss Margaret?"

The door to her room, slowly opened, and light brightened the room further from the corridor. Dixon entered carrying some folded clothes and approached her in her usual bustling manner.

"Sorry to wake you, Miss, but that man will not leave, so I have had to let him wait for you in the sitting room. How he can expect to see you now is a mystery." She began to impassively put the clothes away without elaborating further.

"Who would not, Dixon?" She asked confused, straightening her gown and checking her hairpins were still firmly in place in the small dressing table mirror.

"Mr Thornton of course." Margaret stilled for a moment. "The cheek of it, turning up here when you are grieving. And after you nearly drowned telling him so in person this morning."

Margaret could not resist a small smile at that. Dixon always had possessed a flair for the dramatic but describing her experience this morning as nearly drowning was a little far even for Dixon.

"I told him as much, of course, and the man did have the decency to look ashamed but he would not leave without seeing you he said! It's disgraceful…"

She was muttering again, but Margaret did not hear her. The dream she had just awoken from was seeping into her consciousness. He was here. In her house. Part of her was shocked. Oh, she had known that he would come with every fibre of her being, but now he had actually arrived she could not help but admire him. "Perhaps he has come to apologise for earlier?" her mind questioned but she knew it was not for that reason. There was only one reason for his visit here. She could at least make this quicker for him if she could not stop the embarrassment.

"That's quite alright, Dixon. I will see him." She had hoped for a moment to gather her thoughts and prepare but it seemed Mr Thornton had caught her off guard. She supposed since she had done that very thing to him that morning, it was only fair.

"I will come with you…" The maid was cut off by Margaret before she could finish protesting.

"No, Dixon. You must promise me that you will not come in and intervene. Not even to offer tea or other such niceties. I have something important to discuss with Mr Thornton, something my father wants me to do but he has asked that it be just me and Mr Thornton present when I do so."

"Miss Margaret! Alone, with a man? Oh, what would your poor mother think?" Dixon's hands had flown to cover her mouth and her eyes were open wide.

Margaret sighed. How many more times would she need to cryptically ask for the woman's understanding today?

"She would approve of this, Dixon. She trusted her daughter."

Dixon's eyes seem to water a little at this and, after a brief pause, she nodded slowly. "You will call if you need me though won't you, Miss?" She rested her hands on each of Margaret's arms protectively.

"I promise, Dixon." She assured, taking both of the woman's hands in hers. She gave them a small squeeze before turning her back on the maid and walking away from her concerned gaze to meet her fate.

Margaret's legs shook just a little beneath her as they carried her weight down the stairs to the sitting room. The door was closed, giving her a moment to pause before entering. She raised one hand to rest it against the cool wood and took a deep breath as she grasped the brass handle with the other. "Be brave" she whispered to herself before opening the door.

The dark figure was sat in her father's chair, his elbows resting on his knees and he was cradling his face in his hands. He didn't seem to have noticed she had entered but at the click of the door closing behind her, he rose, like he had that very morning when she had similarly entered another room, but this time the surprise was missing. The movement was more measured, as if his body was heavy and he had to force it to stand.

Once again, neither party spoke. Was there an etiquette one should follow in this situation? Margaret could not imagine a second proposal as a result of a dead father's request happened often enough for there to be an established etiquette.

"Mr Thornton. Thank you for coming." She tried to speak with a positivity she did not feel, but his weary look at her told her he was not fooled. She wondered whether her father had told him that she knew of his appeal, that she had the upper hand in this situation and had known a full day ahead of the man before her, what he would do?

The weariness had faded now and been replaced with an expression she could not identify. His eyes swept over her as they had done in his office and paused at the height of her collar bones, his Adam's apple bobbing as they returned to her face. Then, he raised his eyebrows and focussed his gaze on a point just behind her head. He must have noticed her lack of mourning dress. Edith's comment that no man could resist her in the dress seeped into her mind and she flushed. Perhaps it was inappropriate to wear this one after all. He already thought of her as a ruined woman after seeing her with Fred at the station and now she had probably confirmed his suspicions but not only failing to wear black, but also wearing such a low neckline. Suddenly very self-conscious, Margaret felt she needed to explain, to appeal to his sensibilities. Having a man who was about to propose to her out of obligation judging her choice of clothing was too much for her to stand.

"Mr Thornton, I know I am not wearing black but I did not expect to need so many mourning dresses so soon. Please forgive me for wearing this one instead but it was the darkest thing I had and I didn't think anyone would see me."

She watched him, waiting to see whether he was under the impression she should have expected his coming, trying to deduce how much her father had told him. His eyes flicked to meet hers but she saw no sign that he expected otherwise, he looked confused if anything and embarrassed.

"Please Miss Hale, I wasn't… I mean… I hadn't even…" His eyes looked over her dress again before he finished his broken sentence: "You attire is of no consequence to me Miss Hale. You pointed out to me before that I do not possess you and therefore can have no interest in how you choose to dress."

Why did he always have to try and pick a fight, even when she was on her best behaviour and trying to help him? Margaret could feel heat rising to her cheeks from slowly boiling anger but she remained undeterred. His cold words did not meet his eyes and she suspected he did not mean his words. Perhaps his cold indifference was a form of self-preservation. He did not shy away from her gaze completely but there was a vulnerability there and he seemed to be struggling not to look away from her scrutiny. Still, she had vowed to make this simpler and quicker and she would try to do so, even if he seemed bent on ruining her efforts.

"No Mr Thornton, you are right of course."

He hadn't been expecting that, she could tell. His eyebrows raised and his mouth opened slightly before he turned away from her and moved to stand beside the unlit fireplace; she could almost see his brain working hard to decide how to move the conversation forward but she would not help him this time. He would have to do that part on his own. She sat. He didn't. His eyes flicked to the door and back a few times as if he was debating leaving through it without saying anything more.

"Will Dixon be joining us?"

So that was his worry.

"No. She will not, Mr Thornton." Her voice was matter of fact and left no room for elaboration.

After a satisfied nod of the head, he spoke: "Miss Hale, I wanted to say once again that I am so sorry to hear of your father's death." He spun quickly to face her as he said it, but remained in place by the fireplace, across the small sitting room from her.

"Thank you, Mr Thornton."

"What will you do now?" His question was blunt and hung on the empty air between them for a moment like an ominous spectator, waiting with him for her answer.

"I will return to London to live with my Aunt."

"You must be pleased to be returning to the south?"

"I am pleased to be near family since I now have none here." There were no pregnant pauses between their words now; they fired swiftly, back and forward as if both wanted the exchange over with as soon as possible.

"Is there nothing about the north you will miss, Miss Hale?" He said it so quietly she could barely hear it and so quiet it was completely out of character from what she had come to expect from him that she nearly didn't register he had spoken.

She paused.

"More than you might think, Mr Thornton. I would miss the spirit of the people- their dedication to work. I would miss being able to visit my mother and Bessie and Nicholas Higgins.

"Is that all?"

"I think that is quite a lot, Sir. And I would miss my pleasant conversations with you sister, of course..." That part was only half true and she was sure he knew it.

He looked at her hard then and approached where she was sitting with three large strides. He stopped in front of her chair, close enough that if she tried to stand she would struggle to do so without touching him. She was trapped; she supposed in many ways he was too.

"Miss Hale. I have insulted you once before and it is not my aim to do so again, but I fear if I do not speak to you about this now, I never will and I will regret it. I all honestly, I would never forgive myself. I wish to ask you to marry me once more but I beg of you to let me finish before you speak."

She had been about to speak, her mouth primed to cut him off, but at his words, she closed her mouth and waited. She would at least let him finish this time. There was no point stopping him now. He had said the words and it was too late.

"Miss Hale, I know you do not love me as I may have wished…"

She could not help but notice his use of the past tense.

"…but I hope you respect me as a person. Now that your father has died, I wish to ask you to marry me again. Not because I want to 'possess' you as you once believed, but because I respect you and I believe we could help each other."

He moved to sit beside her on the couch, facing forward in contrast to her slight tilt away from him, but he remained looking at her.

"I wish to give you the choice to stay in Milton and finish the good work you have started with the Boucher children and Nicholas Higgins rather than returning to London with your aunt. My taking him on at Marlborough Mills was your idea after all and I owe it to you that I now have such a good worker in him. I would ask for nothing more from you than companionship and respect, and your ideas could help me improve the mill. Perhaps you could add the touch of care that my business mind will not allow me to bring…" He smiled then, a small smile, with just a hint of sadness underneath that made her breath catch in her throat.

As Margaret faced he gaze of the man before her she realised he was really trying. Offering her everything the thought he could and asking for very little in return.

"I promise you, Miss Hale, I will not control you or ask anything of you that you do not wish to give. I would only ask that we tell each other the truth. I think that there cannot be a marriage without honesty, even if the truth is upsetting."

Partners? Confused, Margaret stared at her hands, clasped so tightly in her lap, that her knuckles were turning white. What did his last words mean exactly? His speech had sounded a little like a business proposition rather than a proposal. Ultimately, he was telling her that she could continue to do the things she loved as long as she paid the price. And the price was her hand in marriage and telling the truth? Why had he not mentioned anything about her father's letter and his request for him to propose? Did he not realise she already knew? Even if he did not, why would he keep that from her? She supposed it did not matter why really. But what was he gaining from this situation? Surely all men wanted to control their wives to some extent? How could he promise such a thing to her?

"But I would need to ask of one more thing from you."

He cut through her thoughts, bringing her back to the present. His body was angled towards her now and she turned hers towards him in response, hanging on his every word. Their knees barely touched, but the contact scorched her skin anyway. His eyes were darker in this dimmed light and knowing. Too knowing. Surely, with a gaze full of so much intensity, he could see into the depths of her very soul. In turn, his eyes could not hide his wish now. She knew what the one thing he needed from her was before he began to say it:

"Before we married, I would want you to tell me who the man at the station was and why you lied about being there. I could not start a marriage without knowing the truth and knowing… knowing why I lied for you."

Part of her wanted to tell him anyway, to just be done with the whole thing and restore his good- well, no, not good but better- opinion of her. She would not keep him waiting. The intensity of his stare, the closeness of their bodies was becoming too much to bear, yet she did not look away from him as she gave him her answer.

"I will marry you, Mr Thornton."

She felt as well as saw his responding sharp intake of breath. She had known earlier today that she was going to accept his proposal but the specifics of that proposal had been a pleasant surprise to her. Unbeknownst to him, he had made the words so much easier to say, though they stuck a little in her throat regardless.

Surprised flickered across his features and involuntarily his hand reached for hers, still rested in her lap. She did not take his back but allowed hers to remain under his. His hands were large, larger than she had noticed before and her cheeks reddened as she realised they were both smooth in places and calloused in others against her own small soft hands. She supposed he would have callouses being a man of trade, and her mind flashed back to when Henry Lennox had taken her hand in his in Helstone, before his fateful proposal. Of course, he had been wearing gloves, but she found it extremely unlikely that he would have calloused hands. Would he try and hold her hand when they were married? It would be his right, of course, to do that and much more, but he had promised that this would be a union of friendship?

"You do not wish to return to London with your Aunt?" His question ripped her back to the present. Still his face remained unchanged, but there was something behind his eyes giving away his concern and his hands had retreated from hers and were now restless in his lap.

Again, she met his gaze, willing him to see the truth there as she answered: "No. I wish to agree to your terms." It was true and she was relieved that she could answer him so completely truthfully.

He stood then, his head now a foot taller than her own so that she was once again forced to look up to him, and nodded swiftly.

"Very well," he remarked before turning from her and returning to the fire place.

"But I do have a condition to my own to add."

He paused but did not turn or ask her what her condition was- just waiting as a man waits before a judge to hear his sentence.

"I need to visit Mr Bell in oxford urgently. He intends to have my Father buried in Oxford for ease but I wish him to rest with my mother in Milton so I can visit them both. No-one will visit him in Oxford…" she trailed off, her voice beginning to waiver a little as the now familiar stab of sadness pierced her heart- but she would not break her promise and cry in front of him again. She forced the tears down, satisfied when they did not leave her eyes.

"I want my Father buried in Milton, Mr Thornton and I must ask Mr Bell to do so before Tuesday- two days from now. I need you to take me there, and I suppose, Dixon, as we cannot travel without a male chaperone and I cannot travel with you alone."

He knew she was fighting the urge to cry, he must do as his eyes had softened. For a moment, it appeared to Margaret that he was about to come and embrace her again as he had done in his office, but before she could be sure she had not imagined it, he had nodded again and turned away. He seemed to be thinking and so Margaret did not interrupt.

After what seemed like a life time he asked quietly, "And you will tell me about that man at the station?"

Margaret nodded. "I will. I just need to hear correspondence from a party involved and once I do, I will tell you. I agree to all you asked of me as long as you agree to what you have offered and my one request."

He made a noise of recognition then and turned back to face her once more.

"I will arrive to collect you and Miss Dixon tomorrow morning at 7am, Miss Hale. We will catch the 8am train out of Milton and head for Oxford immediately. In the interim, do you object to my informing my mother of our engagement."

Engagement. Could it still be classed as an engagement? Well, there was to be a wedding so she supposed they were engaged. How could she object under the circumstances? Still slightly reluctant, she nodded her consent regardless of the dread she felt as the thought of his mother's distain for her. Her heart was both relieved and aching with something. Not quite guilt and not quite pain, but something not entirely pleasant. The thought of telling Dixon her news was not helping that in the slightest.

"Do you mind if I tell Dixon?" she asked. It was only fair since he had asked her about telling his mother. An equally daunting task.

"Not at all."

Neither of them moved or spoke until the sound of a heavy footfall on the stairs broke the moment of silence.

"Well, I must go and make arrangements for tomorrow, Miss Hale." He bowed to her and walked towards the door of the room.

"Thank you for your visit Mr Thornton." She followed him out where Dixon was waiting to get rid of him and handed him his coat and hat, before opening the door pointedly.

Mr Thornton did not immediately leave. "Thank you for agreeing to..."

"Marry you" Margaret thought, finishing his words. The reality of the words hitting her with full force.

"friendship." He finished, turning from her and tipping his hat to Dixon. Friendship. Something so simple and yet unbelievably complicated at the same time.

"Thank you, Mr Thornton, for offering to be my friend." It was all she could think to say but it was honest. She was thankful for that.

He looked back as if he wanted to say something more to her before leaving, but whatever it was died before it was given sound. Instead he tipped his hat to her once and left Margaret with only the tutting Dixon and her thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello readers. Thank you so much for your reviews on the last chapter. I greatly appreciated all of them. I know a couple of you were a little surprised that Margaret would accept Mr Thornton's proposal without being in love with him. I have written her this way because when I read North and South, I always feel that although Margaret is strong and has a very deep sense of morality, she is also extremely naïve, sometimes judgemental and actually a little selfish. Although I love her as a character, I also find her naivety and judgement of others quite hypocritical. She is, of course, very young and so I easily forgive her, especially as she learns from her mistakes, but I do think she sometimes uses other people. I won't say any more than that as it will ruin the story but I wanted to explain some of my thoughts.

I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Thank you for reading, Elle x.

…

Margaret stared after Mr Thornton's form as he walked quickly away from Crampton. His shoulders slowly slumped just a little as his footfall disturbed the puddles of fallen rain, sending gleaming droplets skittering around his legs. As he reached the end of the street, he turned back to look towards the house rather than rounding the corner. Their eyes locked and Margaret took a sharp intake of breath. His expression was hard to read- his face impassive- but something about his eyes made her feel sad. And confused. Margaret did not see him turn back and walk out of sight. Instead, she jumped a little, startled as the front door passed close in front of her face, blocking him from her view as Dixon swiftly closed the door between them.

"It's far too cold in here to keep the door open, Miss." Clearly, Dixon had reached her capacity for polite hospitality for today. Margaret knew it must have nearly killed her to leave her and Mr Thornton alone and had no doubt she had been controlling the urge to burst in protect Margaret's dignity.

"Thank you, Dixon. I know that was not easy for you, but I appreciate it a great deal."

Dixon bolted the door and nodded at her, her face pitying but not unkind. She tried to usher her back into the sitting room, but Margaret could not wait to return to her own room and try to bring some clarity into her rather muddled thoughts and feelings about all that had transpired in the last two days.

"I fear I have rather over tired myself again, Dixon. I shall retire I think. I hope you do not mind me doing so at this early hour again?"

"No, Miss Margaret. I was worried you would, and I told Mr Thornton so. How like a tradesman to think he can refuse to leave without speaking to you! I would not have stood for it Miss."

Margaret felt uncomfortable at Dixon's words; an unpleasant protectiveness of the man who despite his hated, had proposed to appease her father, rose up inside her chest. Dixon's unreserved judgement reminded her too much of her own naive reaction to Mr Thornton trying to shake her hand- the instant rejection of something foreign to her, rather than realising he was only trying to make amends for his poor impression when she had seen him that day at the mill, striking a man weaker than him. She supposed that since she had just told the man she would marry him, it was probably a good thing that she didn't like the thought of Dixon criticising him, even if it wasn't a real marriage- it was ultimately an offer of friendship. After all, she had felt the same when Dixon had so verbally disapproved of Nicholas when she arrived at the house drunk. Still, Dixon could not be blamed for her judgement. In the south, no man would ask for a lady to be woken so he could offer his condolences. Henry Lennox would certainly not have done it. It was another foreign experience for her and she had not yet realised that it was not wrong. Just a different way of doing things.

As Margaret turned on her heel to make her way back to the solitude of her room, she realised that since Dixon and she would be leaving early in the morning, she should probably inform the older woman of the fact and of her upcoming marriage and imminent trip to Oxford.

Marriage.

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Suddenly, the idea of marrying filled her with a debilitating fear. She wanted and needed to just face the music and tell Dixon all that had transpired between her and Mr Thornton but found that for some inexplicable reason the words would not come. Instead she stood, clutching the cold rail of the bannister leading upstairs. A veil of confusion seemed to fall in front of her eyes, blurring her vision as the magnitude of what she had done came crashing over her, nearly knocking her over.

She had known this morning as she had walked through the graveyard to see her mother that she was going to accept this man- that she wanted to stay in Milton and try and make a difference. Everything in her wanted to fight the indignity of having to marry a man she was not in love with to be able to remain close to her parents and the only true friends she had. She had also known that marrying a man she did not love here, seemed preferable to returning to the charade of London society balls, the parade of single ladies endlessly dancing and taking walks and waiting for a man to ask for their hand and the rules of the south that now seemed so silly to her. Margaret had not really considered what exactly marriage to Mr Thornton would entail, what his legal rights as her husband would be but now she realised she had been stupid not to think of that. Her mind had been too preoccupied with thoughts of how to get what she wanted, which she had realised almost immediately was to stay in Milton. Something about the town drew her to it and made her want to stay, even in spite of her hatred of the constant fog.

Oh, Margaret knew he would offer and that he was an honest man, who would protect her no matter what, even in the knowledge of her indifference. Of course, Henry was an honest man, and would protect her but it was different. Mr Thornton respected her. He knew she had lied about the station and his position as a magistrate required him to declare what he knew but he did not- even though he clearly hated what she had done and resented her for it, he had done it anyway and expected nothing in return. It would have been the perfect revenge for rejecting him but he did not take it, and Margaret knew he would not have even have considered it. And it was her father's dying wish. How could she refuse that, even if he had disguised it as the hope that she would have a choice?

Not once had she thought for the injustice of what she would be doing to Mr Thornton. No, she had not known that Mr Thornton would sacrifice himself, for that was what he had done. He had given up his chance of finding happiness with a woman who loved him back and instead settled for one who did not, whose reputation was declining at a rapid rate and who he had just promised he would expect nothing of- nothing more than she was willing to give and he must know that she would not be _willing_ to give him his rights as a husband if she didn't have to. Guilt threatened to crush her then as she realised she had once again misjudged him and Margaret felt the sharp sting of tears piercing her eyes. Desperately she tried to keep them in, but the memory of the sadness behind those eyes as he looked at her shattered her resolve.

"Are you alright, Miss Margaret?" Dixon's tone was tender and laced with concern.

The tears were starting to blind her now and Margaret felt herself sliding down the wall to the floor, her hand still clutching the rail of the bannister. She nodded furiously, trying to regain control of herself but the tears would not stop coming now. Why did she never think things through properly until it was too late? Her relief at his more than generous offer and her desperation to have the whole discussion over and done with, had overridden her common sense completely.

By now Dixon had joined her on the floor and was muttering consoling sentiments to her as she patted her shoulder gingerly. It was funny really, she supposed. Before she had realised that she was going to accept his proposal and marry him, she had been worried he would hate her for what she was going to do. Now she knew he was going to hate her for what she had done. Why would he do that to himself? Her father would not have asked that of him so why would he make it appear as if he was proposing mere friendship from this union and nothing more? If she did not know his character so well, she might assume he was trying to trick her into marriage and then intending to break the agreed terms. He would not do that. Still, she needed to ask him why.

The mean and childish part of her mind told her that Mr Thornton was a grown man and far older than she and therefore it was his own folly to offer her something that could surely not be agreeable to him. She was unsure how but she would find a reason to be alone with him, but somehow, she would orchestrate it and she would demand to know why.

It was an effort to stand, but Margaret forced herself, wiping her wet eyes and now streaming nose on the sleeve of her dress in a most unladylike manner.

"Here, Miss." Dixon handed her something small a white- a handkerchief and Margaret took it impassively, pausing when her thumb brushed over the small bumps of cotton stitching. The dark lines of the JT emblem stood out stark against the pure white if the square and for a moment all thought of the events of the evening left her mind as she wondered where the article had come from.

"It was in your coat pocket, Miss Margaret, so I washed and pressed it." Of course. JT must stand for John Thornton. Mr Thornton had given it to her earlier in his office and she had not returned it. For some reason, the iron fist again tightened its hold over her heart at the memory of being comforted by him in his office before she had pushed him away. Rather than using it for its intended purpose, Margaret folded the handkerchief and placed it inside her pocket, thanking Dixon and moving to make her way up the stairs once more.

"Dixon? She called when she had reached the top. "I intend to travel to Oxford tomorrow to persuade Mr Bell to move my father's funeral from Oxford to Milton so he can rest with my mother. Mr Thornton will be our male escort and I will need you to come with me."

Dixon's mouth flew open at her words but she did not instantly refuse.

"Please, Dixon?" She could hear the desperation in her voice but she did not know what she would do if the maid refused.

Slowly the mouth closed and lips pursed.

"Is that why you needed to speak to Mr Thornton tonight, Miss?"

Now the moment was here she couldn't tell the maid she had agreed to marry him. She just couldn't do it. It would be so much easier to just agree and besides, no matter how defiant she felt that if Mr Thornton was to be miserable then it was his own fault, her conscience told her that she should at least give him the chance to take it back and marry her in the traditional sense of the word.

"Yes, that's why." She answered, avoiding meeting Dixon gaze for fear she would instantly realise it was a lie.

"Well, I will be pleased to get out of Milton for a few days…" the woman trailed off, pensively. "What time shall I be ready, Miss?"

"7am, Dixon. Mr Thornton will come for us then." Dixon nodded, resigned and looked at her pityingly once more. She seemed to be debating something before quickly she pulled a letter from her pocket and ascending the stairs to hand it to Margaret.

"A letter came for you earlier, Miss Margaret. I didn't think it was the time to give it to you as you needed your rest. I do hope it is from your Aunt Shaw, telling you when we will be returning to London! How pleased we will be to get out of this dreadful place for good!"

"Oh, I don't know. I think I may be becoming accustomed to the ways of the North." Margaret took the letter, testing the waters in anticipation of tomorrow when she would most likely tell the maid and feel the wrath of her storm. Would he tell his mother tonight as she had asked if he could? The thought made her shiver. Dixon's distain would be nothing compared to the reception she would likely get from Mrs Thornton, when she found out the news. Would he tell her the truth? The truth of what their Marriage would be? Margaret feared that would be even worse than her thinking Miss Hale had changed her mind about her son.

Dixon regarded her as if she had gone mad but did not respond, simply wishing her goodnight and headed towards her bedroom down the corridor, to pack no doubt.

Her room was fully encased in darkness now and the cold had returned. Hurriedly, Margaret lit a candle and changed into her night dress, relieved that she did not need to call Dixon again to untie her.

With the letter clutched in hand, she climbed into bed and pulled the blankets up to her shoulders. Wearily, she regarded it for a moment. Letters had caused her so much grief and pain in the last two days that she felt a sense of trepidation opening this one. Sighing, she pulled the letter open and began to read.

 _Dearest Margaret,_

 _I do hope you are keeping well in the wake of so much tribulation, my dear! Kind Mr Bell has written to me to inform me of your father's passing. How dreadful for you to be alone in 'The North' of all places! Of course, I fully intend to come and collect you and bring you safely back to London as soon as possible, Margaret._

 _Despite the sad circumstances, Edith will be so pleased to hear that when she and Captain visit with their darling boy Sholto in a few months' time, that you will be here with us. I have taken the liberty of informing Henry Lennox of your situation. He has always been very fond of you and was aggrieved to think of you all alone in Milton. He will accompany me when I come to return you to London and is most excited to have your company again soon._

 _Unfortunately, I have a prior engagement in Bath this weekend with Lady Ashbury, which I simply cannot miss, but I will head to Milton from there. I expect to be with you on either Tuesday or Wednesday._

 _Be strong my dear. I will be with you soon._

 _Much love,_

 _Aunt Shaw._

Henry. What would he think about her marrying a tradesman? The thought of seeing him again filled her with dread. She had not seen him since he had turned up at Milton and proposed to her without warning. Now it seemed her Aunt was already on a quest to thrust them together once again.

Margaret supposed at least it was handy that her Aunt had an engagement in Bath. She would have time to do what she needed to in Oxford and return before giving her aunt the news of her engagement. She knew her Aunt would try to dissuade her but she had made her decision- no matter what, promise of purely friendship or not, she was marrying Mr Thornton.

Her mind settled, she lay down, her hand clutching the soft cotton of the handkerchief. There was something comforting about stroking the bumps of the letters but soon she drifted into a fitful sleep, filled with the shrieking voice of Mrs Thornton as her son told her he would be marrying 'that woman'. Again, she found herself in the forest of Helstone, running as fast as she could, but this time away from a different black figure, secure in the knowledge that she would be caught- it was only a matter of when.

…

The station was crowded, despite it still being early in the morning and Margaret had been jostled by porters or other passengers and they rushed to get baggage or themselves onto the train. Smoke from the engine rose up into the air creating an imposing barrier between them and the train.

Outside it had been a cold morning but clear, and the cold air had filtered through into the station, the only heat being the warmth of the engine. Margaret shivered, her hands nestling deeper into the depths of her pockets, her hand still caressing Mr Thornton's handkerchief. She fully intended to return it as soon as she had a moment free of Dixon but it appeared orchestrating such a moment was going to be near impossible. The maid had stuck to her side from the moment they had stepped out from the house in Crampton, sitting close by her side in the carriage ride. Uncomfortably close in fact, and when they had hit a pot hole in the road on the way, Margaret had nearly ended up in the woman's lap. Now Dixon's arm was firmly threaded through hers, the way her mother may have done, had they been closer.

The journey from Crampton had also been uncomfortable as Mr Thornton had barely spoken to either of the ladies, simply wishing them good morning and tipping his hat as Dixon had opened the door and commenting on the welcome absence of the rain. He had also stubbornly (in Margaret's view) avoided so much as looking at her, focussing instead on the roof of the carriage above Dixon's head, as if it was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. Margaret was not sure what she had expected from him when she saw him again, but it had been something other than his now usual coldness. After all, she had agreed to marry the man and surely that changed things? The least he could do was go through the motions of small talk with her.

Throughout the night, Margaret had woken on numerous occasions. She had contracted a chill, no doubt from her stint in the rain yesterday morning and each time she woke shivering, worry filled her mind as she imagined Mr Thornton referencing the marriage with Dixon. Yet, here in the light of day it appeared that was not likely to be a problem since he wasn't saying anything.

Now he strode in front of the women towards the back of the train, finally selecting a carriage and holding the door open for them. Margaret made a point of uncoupling herself from Dixon and allowing the older woman to go through first.

She moved to face Mr Thornton, hoping he would finally look at her but he did not, instead choosing to focus on the inside of the carriage, where Dixon was making quite a business of setting the luggage in the racks above the seats.

"I must speak with you-alone." She told him, also focussing on Dixon's movements inside the carriage to check she could not hear.

He nodded. She felt his gaze finally shift onto her for the first time that morning and was pleased that Dixon had managed to clean, dry and press a black dress for her to wear today so he could not judge her for her lack of mourning clothes again. They were stood close together and it was difficult for Margaret to look up at him, her head only reaching his chest. At a loss, she looked down to find he was offering her his hand to help her onto the train.

Clearly, that was all the answer she was getting.

Gingerly, she took his hand and climbed up the step into the carriage. Momentarily, she debated sitting opposite Dixon in the hope that she may be able to easier speak to him but the thought of the scandalised reaction from Dixon and Mr Thornton made her decision for her and she took a seat besides Dixon. As predicted, when Mr Thornton joined them he took the seat opposite Margaret.

Now that he had looked at her once, he seemed to be unable to stop looking at her and Margaret was acutely aware that although he seemed to be preoccupied with finding the tickets from his pocket and looking out of the window to see if the guard was preparing to see the train off, every few minutes his eyes would flick to watch her and then to Dixon. No doubt he was plotting how to get rid of Dixon so they could talk as she had requested.

Dixon had taken to studying Mr Thornton, curiosity apparent on her face; Dixon was many things but subtle was not one of them. Margaret could tell she was fighting the urge to speak and Margaret internally giggled to herself at the effort it was taking her.

"It is most kind of you to accompany us to Oxford, Mr Thornton." Dixon, broke the settled silence, relief crossing her features.

"It is no problem." Mr Thornton replied, easily but Margaret was not fooled. For some reason he was still on edge. Surely that was proof that he was regretting his offer yesterday.

"How fortunate that you could make arrangements to cover the mill for the next two days." Dixon probed further and Margaret wondered if she suspected something more had transpired between She and Mr Thornton last night.

"Yes, isn't it."

"You must have put yourself to a lot of trouble to arrange this." It was a statement rather than a question but Margaret knew it was meant as the latter. Dixon eagerly leaned forward as if expecting some great revelation in response.

His response was slow and deliberate and not at all what either woman was expecting: "I would do anything I could to help a friend." His eyes bore into hers as he spoke the word 'friend' and Margaret's breath caught in her throat at the sincerity conveyed in his dark eyes. She had never thought much about his eyes before but now she felt as though she could drown in them, in the depth of the promise they conveyed and she realised that he knew her better than she had given him credit for. He must know she had doubts about his commitment to his promise to her and was reassuring her that he meant it. Her heart ached in response in a way she couldn't understand. Perhaps they could be friends- true friends and come to understand one another. Was that not a type of love? Not the sort that her parents had or Edit and Captain Lennox but friendship could be love too, could it not?

The sound of Dixon clearing her through brought both parties back to the present and Margaret felt her cheeks colour. Dixon's eyebrows were raised and the maid moved closer to her in a protecting manner, taking Margaret's hand in hers and squeezing it tightly. Margaret let her but turned away, desperately wishing her flushed cheeks would stop betraying her. A quick glace across the carriage gave her slight satisfaction as she saw Mr Thornton's cheeks were as flushed as hers.

Luckily, the guard's whistle sounded then and the train kicked into motion, ending the conversation and causing Dixon to drop Margaret's hand and give her a little more space.

The three settled into companionable silence, and Margaret focussed on the changing countryside around them. On either side, factories and smoke flashed by and were soon replaced by open countryside, the sort of wild open countryside that it was so easy to forget existed beyond the reach of the city. There was something hypnotic about sitting back to watch the scene and Margaret could feel the soft caress of sleep trying to take over her. She glanced tentatively at Dixon, hoping she would succumb to sleep's call but the maid's eyes were wide open and fixed on Mr Thornton, watching him like a hawk, whilst he seemed to be doing his best to pretend he had not noticed her scrutiny. Sighing, Margaret leaned back into the padding of the seat and allowed her eyes to close. She would not allow sleep to take her but since there seemed to be no chance of Dixon falling asleep long enough to accomplish her mission, she may as well relax a little.

At some point she must have slept as when she opened her eyes she was covered by something heavy, dark and warm. She opened her eyes, slowly, blinking slightly in the faint sunlight, now filtering through the windows of the train. Her eyes focussed in on the dark object in front of her and she realised her was being watched. Partly through embarrassment and partly because of the protestations of her eyes to the brightness, she shut them tightly again.

Someone near her shifted, making her skirts rustle slightly.

Margaret opened her eyes just a little, squinting through them at her companions. Mr Thornton was looking out the window at the countryside moving past and Dixon's eyes had closed. Margaret fully opened hers and watched. The man before her was looking more relaxed now, his cravat loosened just a little and his hair ruffled as if he had run his fingers through his hair over and over. Now that she really looked, she could see that he looked tired. Tired and sad. She supposed both were probably her fault.

A small but distinguishable snore came from Dixon's form beside her and Margaret sighed in relief. Finally!

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked quietly, still blinking in the light as her eyes adjusted to the change.

He looked at his pocket watch. "About three hours, Miss Hale."

Three hours? Had Dixon spent three hours glaring at her target? She would not put it past her. She hadn't meant for that to happen but she had slept better than she had since the news of her father's death had shattered her world.

Carefully, she lifted the cover from herself, realising for the first time that it was a coat, too large to be her own or Dixon's and shivered slightly as the cold air returned. Moving to the other side of the carriage to be closer to Mr Thornton; she offered him the coat as she did so but he did not move to take it.

"You are still cold, Miss Hale. Keep it."

It was a whispered command and Margaret wanted to protest but as she shivered again, she did not.

"How long do we have left?" She had no idea how long she had been asleep and felt a prickle of panic as she realised she would soon have to beg her godfather. She had no plan in the case of him refusing to change the funeral. She supposed she would simply have to implore Mr Thornton to help her achieve her goal but she would cross that bridge when it came to it.

Drawing the coat up around her, she moved closer towards him so that they might more easily talk. This would most likely be the only chance they had to do so without being overheard and there was much she needed to say. She debated how to start the conversation. Should she begin with some pleasantries before getting to the point?

As if reading her mind, he spoke: "You may just say what you need to, Miss Hale." His voice was deep and low so as not to wake Dixon. He leant slightly towards her but his gaze was lowered onto his large hands, which were clasped together in his lap. The image of his hands stroking her hair in his office the morning before filled her mind. As it had yesterday, the thought clouded her thoughts and made it difficult to concentrate. If he was to try and do it again, would she let him? His eyes glanced at her, as he wondered at his silence and she looked quickly away before he noticed the cause of her stare.

"I need to thank you for offering to marry me and for offering friendship yesterday, Mr Thornton…" she trailed off, thinking of how to phrase her next sentence.

Dixon snored slightly Margaret paused until she was sure her companion was not waking. Not taking any chances, she moved closer to him and lowered her voice still.

"but I also need to ask you why."

His head snapped round to face her. "Why what, Miss Hale?"

"Why would you do that to yourself?"

"Why do what to myself?" His reply was defensive but his confusion was clear as he scrutinised her face, making her blush.

Not allowing herself to be deterred, she replied: "Why subject yourself to a life time of friendship? Why deny yourself the opportunity to find a wife who will love and adore you and who you will love and adore?"

His eyes bore into hers and she was sure her cheeks were flushing again. Those eyes roamed her face and she was sure he had noticed her blush. Her breathing quickened and her heart had started beating so fast she was sure it was going to beat right out of her body. Now the time was here, she cowardly found herself desperately hoping he did not take back his offer of friendship. Last night she had thought she would still marry him if he demanded a real marriage, but now the time was here, she was beginning to regret mentioning it at all.

"Why did you say yes?" His question surprised her. She raised her eyebrows at his avoidance tactics. Her parents had always told her it was grammatically incorrect to answer a question with a question and it railed her that after talking about being truthful, he would not answer before she gave up some information herself. Breathing deeply, she decided to overlook it and answer him.

"Because I want to stay in Milton and be near my parents. I admire the work ethic of the people here and I believe the south and its sense of privilege would bore me after experiencing Milton. If I move back to London, I will find myself married to a man I do not love and who also does not respect my opinion as I believe you do and I want to help with the Mill as you suggested." She answered without pausing. It was the truth but not the full truth. "I will not be denying myself anything I want." She wasn't exactly sure what she meant by that but it was out before she could take it back. Her father's letter filled her mind but she omitted that part. Throughout her speech he had not allowed his eyes to break contact with hers and Margaret thought to herself that his mother was probably right when she had said that her son had plenty of ladies who wished to marry him. She could see how another sillier girl could fall in love with those eyes. There seemed to be a wealth of mystery hidden in their depths and she could not tell what he was thinking.

"You said you wanted us to be honest. Will you not be honest with me now? You could have found someone who loves you and who loves you back, why would you turn that down for friendship with me? Or if you felt you must make an offer to me again, why deny yourself traditional marriage you could demand once we married?"

He broke the look, his eyes returning to Dixon's sleeping form. Margaret could tell his mind was whirling but he had closed off from her again, the walls she thought she was braking as she told him why she said yet, were climbing once again. The seconds ticked by and still he did not speak but cautiously he moved closer still. Now they were sitting close enough that their clothes touched, though their skin did not. Regardless, Margaret could feel the heat from his body radiating up her own arm and her head began to feel cloudy. It was becoming too hot, which she supposed was natural since they were now in the south, where sunlight sometimes did make more of an appearance than it ever did in Milton. She waited expectantly, studying his face and he seemed to be battling with how to phrase whatever he was trying to say.

His response was quiet and self-conscious when it finally came.

"I think you know why, Margaret."

It was the first time he had ever used her Christian name and it felt too personal. It made her stomach twist in a way that was not completely uncomfortable but unnerved her immensely and she was glad he could not see her expression as she was sure it would display her discomfort. Of course, she knew when they married he would call her Margaret; he couldn't forever go on calling her Miss Hale, but it shocked her to hear it from him nonetheless.

But did she know why? He had cheated. She wouldn't have asked if she did! Despite his assumption, she wasn't sure that she understood at all, but she nodded anyway. She might be ignorant of what he meant but she could sense it would be cruel to ask again as it seemed to upset him so. Could he be referring to the letter from her father? Should she let on that she knew what her father had asked of him now? It was on the tip of her tongue but she did not give it sounds as Dixon stirred opposite, jerking awake comically and looking around confused. Margaret knew that she should move back to sit beside Dixon before she noticed her charge had moved but she did not. Something rooted her to the spot beside her other companion. Perhaps it was the urge to talk with him further but she did not want to move.

It did not take long for Dixon to notice her position and frown accusingly at Mr Thornton, her glare sharp enough to cut a diamond.

"I am sure you would be more comfortable on this side of the carriage, Miss Margaret." She patted the seat beside her as if Margaret was a child or a dog (she supposed in Dixon's eyes she probably still was a child) and gave her a pointed look.

"Thank you for your concern, Dixon but I am fine just where I am." Her reply was sweet and she pretended she had not noticed the maid's distain. Beside her the arm barely grazing hers twitched, not enough to see, but enough for Margaret to feel it hotter against her own arm through the layers of clothing.

Dixon's lips pursed but to her credit she made no further comment, refusing to look at the people opposite her and staring determinedly out the window. Margaret knew if she remained stubbornly refusing to engage with her companions, she would be asleep within a few minutes and so she waited.

Countryside drifted past, changing into town and finally stopping somewhere at a small station and finally Dixon's eyes closed. Margaret smiled a little at the sight. At least one thing in her life was still constant. He was waiting too, she realised, watching for when the coast would be clear. In the silence of the carriage all that could be heard was the steady sound of their breathing and the train clattering along its path.

It didn't take too long before Dixon's mouth dropped open and she began to snore. He waited barely a beat before he spoke.

"You didn't tell her." It wasn't really a question but she answered anyway.

"No." She paused. "Did you tell your mother?"

She knew he hadn't before he confirmed it.

"I thought you would change your mind." He was looking at her now and Margaret saw the same sadness she had seen as he had paused at the end of her street last night. Now she understood- he thought she had just accepted to get him to come with her to Oxford.

Anger rose up inside her and it was too late to stop herself from jumping from her seat and blurting out: "Do you really think so little of me, that you would believe I would not keep my word?" It had come out louder than expected and Dixon, shifted in her sleep. His coat had slipped from her to the floor and lay pooled at her feet, where he simply stared at it.

"No, Miss Hale." He whispered as soon as he was sure Dixon had not been woken.

Her annoyance only increased at the return to a formal address. Her Christian name had been just fine for him not half an hour ago.

"I had been sure once before that you would accept me and I had misjudged the situation. I feared I had taken advantage of a grieving girl and you would have come to your senses as soon as you realised what you would be missing out on love by marrying me." His voice had taken on a harsh edge instead of the soft self-consciousness from earlier.

"Please sit down, Miss Hale." His eyes flicked between her and Dixon and she conceded purely to avoid waking Dixon, picking up his coat and shoving it in his direction as she did so.

"Indeed, as soon as we boarded the train you said we needed to talk- what else was I supposed to think? You have turned down my friendship before, remember." The harshness was already slipping away and his voice had adopted a desperate edge. "I see now that I was wrong in that regard."

She didn't reply. Her mind wanted her to move back to beside Dixon out of spite and she had to clench her fists to keep herself rooted. She supposed she could not blame him really. She was not so proud as to deny her treatment of him following his first proposal was less than kind and he still did not know of her innocent connection to the incident at the station. He would be so much of a gentleman that he would insult her even in his attempt to be kind.

"It was clear since I arrived this morning that you had not told Dixon. Why?"

Margaret had been about to reply when the train jolted forward and Dixon again awoke, the glare instantly resuming its place.

"How long until Oxford, Mr Thornton?"

"I would guess about 20 minutes."

Dixon had not attempted to hide her annoyance and not did not try to hide her relief.

"Thank goodness. I suppose we will have to get used to travelling since we will be taking the train back to London imminently, when your dear Aunt Shaw comes to collect us, Miss Margaret."

Beside her Mr Thornton stiffened and Margaret bit her lip. Slowly, she took a deep breath and prepared herself for the war which was about to begin.

"Dixon, I won't be going back to London. You see, Mr Thornton and I are going to be married." He stiffened beside her. "I will be staying in Milton with my husband."

Dixon's face displayed a mixture of shock and incredulity. Indeed, the word 'husband' sounded odd to her own ears.

"No, Miss. You need not make any rash decisions. Your Aunt will arrive and take you to London and you can find a gentleman to marry there." Her voice was kind but firm and Margaret almost felt sorry for her.

"I have found a gentleman" she lingered over the word, hoping he understood that she was trying to make up for her judgemental words all that time ago "and my decision is not rash, Dixon. I thank you for your concern, but I will marry Mr Thornton."

Without any forethought and without any understanding of why she did it, Margaret found herself grabbing Mr Thornton's hand with her own and linking her fingers through his in his lap. She supposed subconsciously, she had realised it was the only way to make Dixon believe her story. That must be why she had done it, but to reassure him of the truth of her words and that she had not intended to take back her acceptance of his offer was why she gripped it tighter, and softly moved her thumb across his knuckles. The shock of her actions seemed to have done something funny to his breathing and he was staring at her with a look of such intensity that she started to panic. She had gone too far. Why couldn't they ever just talk without arguing and her doing something stupid?

"I will leave that to you and your Aunt then, Miss." It was cold and uncaring and Margaret knew she had hurt the closest thing she had to family in that moment once again. She hoped Dixon would let her make it up to her when she had accepted her decision.

To her relief, Dixon resumed her defiant silence and turned away from them to look out of the window at the fast approaching city (as Margaret had known she would) and Margaret released Mr Thornton's hand, the feel of his grip lingering on hers as she steadfastly refused to meet his gaze for the rest of the journey.


	5. Chapter 5

Dear readers,

Thank you so much for the useful reviews once again. They make my week and I appreciate them very much. The next chapter is here. I knew this one would be hard to write and it really was but I hope you like it.

Please do review and let me know either way.

Thanks for reading, Elle. x

…

The short remainder of the train journey to Oxford station had been awkward to say the least. Dixon had refused to look at her, staring steadfastly out the window to her right and she in turn, had refused to look to her left at Mr Thornton, instead focusing on anything else to avoid facing his scrutiny.

She was unsure how she could possibly have been so bold as to take a man's hand- let alone thread her fingers through his in such an intimate manner. She supposed that once they were married no-one would bat an eyelid if she was to do so again, yet, until she had done it, she hadn't even realised people did hold hands quite like that. Now she suspected that there might be something rather nice about being connected to someone in that way. She supposed, if she were in love with Mr Thornton, she might want to be linked with him. Underneath her feelings of sheer panic at the reaction of her companion, the feel of his hand entwined with hers had been sort of comforting- a way of promising something without words. His reaction, however, was a mystery to her. Perhaps it was a result of his surprise at her boldness, but she had been able to feel his heartbeat through their touching arms, the ferocity of its pounding had been such. And his hand had shaken, undetectable by the eye but noticeable to her. Perhaps her own would have shaken had she known what she was about to do but her mind had made the decision for her and it was too late to take it back by the time she had realised what she had done.

That look he had given her had been too much though- it had been enough to make her own heart react in a similarly distressing way and she was suddenly scared of what would happen if she didn't let go. Part of her had wanted to know- was interested to do it again- just to see what would happen, but the rest of her was horrified by the thought.

Since she had released him, Mr Thornton had been pretending to stare at his lap or out of the window, but Margaret knew better. His gaze burned into her face every few seconds as he not so inconspicuously glanced towards her form beside him. She knew he was confused why she had taken his hand and she was desperate to be alone with him again so she could explain her innocence but it would not be. There was no possibility of Dixon falling asleep again now in such a short time and since her untimely revelation, she highly doubted Dixon would let her be alone with him again until her Aunt arrived and Dixon could implore her to forbid Margaret from marrying.

That was another obstacle in this whole debacle that Margaret had not thought of until now. Somehow, she suspected that her aunt would not approve of her choice of husband- a mere manufacturer- and whilst her aunt could not really stop her, she did not want there to be friction between the two of them. She had no intention of disclosing the nature of her marriage to her aunt but she may need to warn Mr Thornton that her mother's sister was extremely likely to dislike him purely for his lack of rank in London society.

When, finally, the train pulled into Oxford and they were able to exit the train, Margaret was relieved to have a distraction from her confused thoughts. Mr Thornton went to find a porter to help with their belongings and Margaret trailed behind him like a lost sheep, not wanting to be alone with Dixon whose lips were still pursed into a tight line, a silent sign of her disapproval. Margaret knew if she was left alone with the maid, her disapproval would not remain silent and she needed to focus on other things. Finding her godfather for one.

Thank goodness the man before her had agreed to take her to Oxford to find Mr Bell, as it only dawned on Margaret that she had no idea where he lived or how to find an address in Oxford without his help, as she followed him around the station like a child. Equally, she was relieved to find that he had made reservations for them at a hotel in Oxford for that night, as she had not even considered where they would stay. Instead she had been purely focused on what she would do if Mr Bell was to deny her of her wish. He had returned to his stony expression, hardly paying her any mind as she trotted after him and walking just a little too fast so that she had to run just slightly to keep up with his longer legs. To an observer it must have appeared quite comical, but Margaret was relieved to see things had returned to the business-like efficiency she had come to associate with him.

Oxford was a beautiful place- she could not deny it. Something about the tall stone buildings, perhaps the reverence of the place or the academic atmosphere as their carriage to the hotel passed students in their academic gowns, seemed to suit her father and for the first time she doubted she was doing the right thing. People smiled as they walked down the streets in their southern fashion choices, clearly distinguishable to her from the styles of Milton and even the weather seemed to approve of Oxford. It was the first time she had seen sun in months and Margaret could not help but smile at the heat of its rays as they gently warmed her face. In her elation, she turned to catch Mr Thornton, staring at her with an unreadable look on his face- an odd mixture of wonder and sadness perhaps, who coloured deeply at having been caught and pretended to have been looking out of the carriage window. Margaret was not fooled. He was still confused by her earlier actions, that much was clear, and she coloured again at the memory of her immodest behaviour.

"Have you been to Oxford before, Mr Thornton?" She asked to cover her embarrassment, trying to make the situation less awkward and defuse the tension she had unwittingly created.

"No Miss Hale, I have not had much opportunity to travel I am afraid." His voice was a little disapproving as if he was humouring her rather than answering because he wanted to and Margaret for the first time felt completely alone in the world. Since she was now an orphan, Dixon and Mr Thornton- her fiancé- had become the only two people she had in existence and now it appeared she had ruined all that. Dixon was not talking to her and apparently, she was back to cold civility from the person she had thought she was defending from Dixon. The whole situation was becoming rather frustrating, not to mention ridiculous and she sighed in frustration.

Still, she would not allow the foul mood of others to dampen her happiness. She returned to her view and tried to put both of her companions from her mind.

Not wanting to cause more fractures in her now cracked relationship with Dixon, she had chosen to sit beside the maid, whose happiness to both have escaped the confines of the train and be back in the south was palpable. Indeed, she was smiling rather than her sour disapproval.

"Oh, Miss Margaret, surely those are the same roses you loved so in Helstone!" The sight of yellow roses growing in the hedges combined with the sunshine coaxed her from her silence, the words bursting forth as if ripped from her. Margaret could not help but smile at the change in atmosphere in the carriage and she giggled in response.

"I believe you are right Dixon! How I loved picking them with Papa and presenting them to Mama. She was always so pleased, even when we had done so hundreds of times before!"

"No wonder Mr Bell, wanted to bury your father here in the south! I only wish your mother could have been left to rest among beauty rather than the dirt and smoke." Dixon trailed off, looking for Margaret's reaction.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but I cannot help how I feel."

She did not continue and Margaret did not know how to respond so she did not. She did not miss Mr Thornton's hurt expression and the magnitude of the wall which was now steadily rising between them again, even as the one she had unwittingly erected between her and Dixon began to fall.

…

The hotel was small but clean and more than adequate for one night's stay. Margaret would be sharing a room with Dixon and Mr Thornton had his own next door. They dropped off their bags and sought out food. Dixon's icy demeanour had thawed somewhat and she had prattled to Margaret throughout a large luncheon, ignoring Mr Thornton who equally ignored her back, barely saying two words to either of them through the hour and a half they must have spent eating in the sunshine. It was the most Margaret had eaten in days and although it was only the early afternoon, they would not need dinner.

Margaret had tried to persuade Dixon that she could trust her and Mr Thornton to seek out Mr Bell's office alone and wait at the hotel, but the older woman would not be persuaded, as predicted. She was watching Margaret's every move like a hawk, though her hostile demeanour had almost fully slipped and she had consented to idle chit-chat on the short walk to Mr Bell's college, where Mr Thornton seemed to be convinced they would find, the man they sought.

Mr Thornton strode ahead, always at least five paces in front as the woman struggled to keep up and Margaret got the distinct impression that he felt uncomfortable in his present surroundings. His body was rigid as he walked and his shoulders slightly hunched as they had been last night as he retreated from Campton. His dark coat seemed in contrast with the colours of the blooming flowers, which decorated the stone walls and buildings around them. A sad figure, against the happiness the surroundings seemed to exude and Margaret was reminded of her dream- yet now the dark figure was ahead, as if he was the one trying to escape her advancing figure. She supposed she too was a dark figure- a blot of the beauty of this place. Perhaps she no longer belonged in the south either, ruined the landscape. The thought made her sad.

As they turned into one of the colleges, they were greeted by arched walkways surrounding a square courtyard, filled with shortly cut grass and an edging of flowers. Wooden benches complemented the four sides and Dixon made her way towards one, falling into it motioning for her two younger companions to go on.

Several wooden doors lined the walkways and Mr Thornton silently pointed towards one on the far side of the courtyard, striding purposefully towards it without waiting for her. He knocked smartly three times and waited.

With a creek, the large door opened and her godfather greeted her happily before pulling her towards him in a friendly embrace. He released her and moved to let her inside before shaking her companion's hand and motioning for him to do the same.

His office was large and filled with books. Margaret could see why her father would have liked visiting Mr Bell here. She could imagine him sitting in one of the chairs beside the fire and reading or discussing with Mr Bell. How she wished she could have had the opportunity to visit her with him. Had he not said in his letter that he hoped she would have the opportunity to visit with someone else if she could not with him? Well, now she was here with Mr Thornton and going to become his wife. Her life had completely flipped upside down from what she had thought it was not four days ago and she bit her lip to stop herself from crying.

Mr Bell, gestured towards two of the chairs beside the fireplace and Margaret selected one and sat dabbing the couple of tears, which had managed to sneak past her defence with the handkerchief from her pocket, becoming self-conscious when Mr Thornton took the chair beside her and widened his eyes at the sight of his initials stitched into the material.

Luckily, she did not have time to worry about this as her godfather took a chair opposite them.

"I wish your visit was not under such sad circumstances, Margaret but I do hope you are liking Oxford?" His question was kind and showed no pity or pretence and Margaret was glad she had come, regardless of the outcome. She had always liked Mr Bell and hearing his voice reminded her of her father and the times she had heard the pair discussion the world in his study.

"When I received Thornton's letter this morning, informing me of your arrival, I was most surprised but pleased to be seeing you so soon."

Mr Thornton's letter? That surprised her? How had he received a letter from him so quickly when the slow speed of the postal service was the sole reason she had ventured here in person in the first place.

"How did you get a letter here so quickly?" she asked rounding on Mr Thornton, all thought of embarrassment at having been caught using his handkerchief forgotten and replaced with bewilderment and a hint of mistrust.

"I sent a man ahead on the last train last night so that Mr Bell might be able to ensure he was here to see us today…" his reply was defensive and delivered without looking at her and as the men launched into polite conversation about the state of the mill, Margaret relapsed into her thoughts.

He had sent a man ahead? Paid to send a man with a letter on a train so it might get there quickly and then also made the same trip with her and a maid this morning? He had paid for four return train tickets, rather than the logical method of asking her to write her plea to Mr Bell and send that with the man on the train last night? It made no sense.

Baffled, Margaret kept quiet as the men talked, observing the man who had done so much for her with confusion. If he wished to bring her and Dixon to make sure of their success as she requested, why bother sending the man at all? She was not at all convinced by his claim that he wanted to check Mr Bell would be there. It was his work- he was always there.

"Margaret, Mr Thornton told me in his correspondence that you wish for your father to be buried in Milton rather than Oxford?"

Margaret's confusion deepened. If Mr Bell knew of this wish already, then there really was no need for them to come! She frowned at Mr Thornton, who was watching her expectantly and turned to her godfather.

"Yes, Mr Bell. I wish to be able to visit him easier as I fear not many others will. Other than yourself of course…" she trailed off under Mr Bell's scrutiny.

The older man's face crinkled in confusion. "Surely Oxford it better for you too, Margaret. Certainly, Oxford is closer to London than Milton is, so it would be easier to visit your father here than there!" He raised one had to his chin, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair and Margaret got the distinct impression he was trying to analyse her.

"I won't be living in Oxford, Mr Bell." Her answer was confident but incomplete. Had her father's letter specified whether Mr Bell knew of her father's request of his tenant? She wasn't sure he has actually clarified that point but there was something about the way he was looking at her that made her wonder.

"Has your Aunt not agreed to take you in, my dear?" His eyebrows raised slightly and she decided he must not know. Otherwise he surely would not have asked that question? If he did know, he must have realised that he had asked the wrong question?

"Mr Bell. Miss Hale has agreed to marry me." Mr Thornton declared and Margaret's heart missed a beat. Goodness knows, she had thought about it enough over the last few days but hearing it out loud still shocked her.

"Has she?" Mr Bell turned to face his goddaughter and raised his eyebrows further still. "Well, I see, congratulations are in order, to both of you then." Looking between the two, Mr Bell's expression was one of curiosity rather than surprise.

"When will the wedding be?"

"We have not decided the particulars yet, under the circumstances, we have not had chance." The question was answered before she had the chance to formulate a response and she felt a ripple of annoyance. She was perfectly capable of answering for herself and fully intended to shoot daggers at Mr Thornton but her anger quelled at his look of apology. He seemed to be pleading for her forgiveness as if he had realised he had spoken for her and, mollified, she stayed silent.

"Mr Thornton, might I have a moment alone with my goddaughter?" Mr Bell's eyes remained focused on Margaret throughout his question, rather than the recipient and Margaret met his gaze with as much intensity. Mr Thornton voiced his agreement to the request and stood to leave.

"I will be just outside if you need me, Miss Hale." He said before he strode purposefully from the room, closing the wooden door behind him with a bang and Margaret was glad of his reassurance, knowing all too well what Mr Bell wanted to speak to her alone about.

Mr Bell, stood pacing now, his sharp eyes trained on her all the while.

"I am so glad you got my letter, Miss Hale. I was very distressed to be the one to deliver such sad news." His sadness was genuine, his voice breaking slightly at the end and his eyes softening a little.

"Do not be distressed, Mr Bell. I was only glad to have received the news quickly and from someone I knew so well and could trust. I am sure he would have been pleased to go so quietly and seemingly painlessly?" Her confidence faltered at the end and it came out more as a question than the statement she intended it to be.

"I certainly do not think he suffered, Margaret. Do not concern yourself over that."

Margaret nodded, marginally comforted by his confident tone. She had not properly cried since that fateful moment in Mr Thornton's office, but she could not stop the quiet trail from making their way down her cheeks at the thought of her father's body being found by Mr Bell and she was glad Mr Thornton was not here to see it.

"I see that you decided to give my tenant the letter from your father."

Her nose had started streaming once again and she rustled agitatedly in her lap for the handkerchief to stop it with.

"It seemed wrong not to."

"Even knowing what it contained?"

Margaret's head snapped up to face her godfather. So, he did know. He had known all along? Had he known the enormity of the choice he was asking her to make, when he sent her all three letters?

"You knew what my father was going to ask of him." It was a statement, despite her uncertainty in its truth.

Mr Bell nodded. "We spoke of many things whilst he was here. I will not disclose everything as I fear that would be unfair to your father who trusted me, but one thing was your future."

"Seize the day. We both have our reasons." That was what her father had said. There was something else they were keeping from her, she was sure of it.

"Did I do wrong in giving you the choice, Margaret?"

Did he? He must have known that in giving her the choice he had actually (in a way) taken 'choice' away from her. How could she choose to go against her father's wishes to pass on the letter? On the other hand, how could he have known her feelings had changed towards Milton and London and what she wanted for her future?

"No, you did right, Mr Bell."

He did do the right thing. Had he not sent them, if she had ever found out she would have ultimately resented him for denying her father his last words.

"I think your father was concerned you would be forced to do as your Aunt wanted, rather than your own wishes, and he has had first-hand experience of how your aunt can be…"

She knew he referenced her aunt's disapproval of her sister's choice in marrying a simple clergyman and the ensuing battle had had faced over the matter upon every visit. The same disapproval she was going to likely experience very soon.

"Don't get me wrong, my dear, I don't to mean to criticise, but I fear she sometimes has her own agenda?"

Margaret nodded. That was one way to put it. She loved her aunt and was grateful for all the care and hospitality she had received from her but she was easily swayed by what was fashionable rather than what was right.

Taking his seat once again, he continued, "I cannot help but wonder, my dear, whether you have really thought this…"

"I know what I am doing, Mr Bell." She cut him off, assuring him. If there was one thing she did know it was what she was doing.

"But do you know what he is doing?"

For a moment she was baffled. Did she know what who was doing?

"What do you mean, Mr Bell?" She supposed he must mean Mr Thornton.

"Has he told you the whole truth, do you think? Just something to think about." His words made her feel uneasy and again questions about why Mr Thornton had sent a man ahead with a letter and then brought them to Oxford anyway swam in her mind. She did know he would not do anything unless he thought it would help her, and that thought gave her comfort.

"I will, Mr Bell. Thank you for your concern."

He nodded thoughtfully and turned his attention to the unlit grate.

"Mr Bell, please. I must implore you to move my father's funeral to Milton. I know it will incur extra costs but I will happily pay them…"

"How, Margaret. How will you pay them?" His tone was kind but she detected a sharp edge behind them.

"I will find some money."

"You will find some money?"

"Yes, I will find the money."

"From where?" It was beginning to mirror the firing back and forth of questions and answers, which she and Mr Thornton had exchanged in the sitting room in Crampton yesterday and Margaret's skin began to crawl, resenting the interrogatory route the conversation had taken.

"Mr Thornton will help me, I know he will."

Mr Bell's eyes were piercing her with the ferocity of a knife as he regarded her thoughtfully.

"Are you sure you know what _you_ are doing?" His tone definitely had an edge now and Margaret felt like she wanted to cry again, fresh tears starting to sting her eyes.

"I am sorry my dear. I did not mean to distress you." He walked towards Margaret and offered her his hand to help her stand. She did so and he led her towards the door.

"People marry for many different reasons and I am certainly not one who can criticise them having never married myself, but don't hurt him Margaret. I do not always see eye to eye with my tenant but he deserves better than that. And so do you for you will surely end up hurting yourself too. Your father may have wished for your union but that does not mean you have to."

She wasn't going to hurt Mr Thornton. He knew how she felt, she had told him no that fateful day following the riot. They had discussed her motives and he had laid his own plain last night when she accepted him. Did no-one trust her? Just because she did not love him did not mean she was using him. She had been entirely honest about her reasons for accepting and fully intended to keep her side of the bargain. She had not agreed to marry him for love, that would have been untruthful and she would never have told him she loved him knowing it to be untrue, but friendship was a different matter. Part of her wanted to tell her godfather the real nature of their intended union but something stopped her. That was private, between her and Mr Thornton and no-one else needed to know. They could figure out how it would all work themselves.

"I want to marry him, Mr Bell." And she did. There were too many reasons why to explain to him, too many to make sense of in her mind and they were too complicated to distinguish but she firmly believed it was for the best.

"Then I do congratulate you, Margaret and I will do as you ask. I have already made the arrangements for the funeral to take place in Milton on Friday." His tone was kind, the sharp edge gone completely and his eyes sparkled just a little as he granted her wish. "That gives us a few days to travel and prepare, and my closest friend will be reunited with your dear mother."

She visibly sighed with the relief of it all and allowed him to open the door for her, squinting into the now slightly dimming sunlight and returning to Mr Thornton's side. Standing closer than strictly necessary, possessively, in fact to make a point to her godfather.

"My father left me a little money, Mr Bell. I will have it made accessible to you." She said slightly sheepishly.

"No need my dear. I was merely teasing you. Think of it as a gift."

The feeling of peace and elation threatened to overwhelm her and she considered taking Mr Thornton's hand once again, in an effort to prove to Mr Bell the conviction of her words.

"Allow me to congratulate you again Thornton, and I will be awaiting my invite to the happy day. In somewhat more sombre news, the arrangements have been made and the funeral will take place on Friday morning. Now, where are you staying? I will walk you all home and then I trust I can leave Margaret in the care of yourself and Miss Dixon?"

The latter had made her way over to the trio and greeted Mr Bell warmly.

"Miss Dixon, allow me to escort you back to the hotel." He offered her his arm and Dixon blushed a little.

"That is most kind of you, Mr Bell, but I really should walk with Miss Margaret."

"She will be right behind and in good hands, I assure you!" He offered the older woman his arm again and she took it, glancing between Margaret and Thornton with a warning look and Margaret could not help but roll her eyes.

Mr Bell led Dixon out of the courtyard and into the street with a glance behind him and then they were out of sight for a moment as they rounded the corner.

"Thank you, Mr Thornton, I cannot put into words how grateful I am for your help."

"My pleasure, Miss Hale."

Side by side, they began to follow the route out of the courtyard and back to the hotel. The afternoon was now starting to come to its close and the streets were beautiful in the now established twilight.

They did not speak as they walked but every few steps Mr Thornton's arm would brush with hers as they accidently stepped a little off straight; the uneven cobbled path made it somewhat difficult to stay an even distance apart. Whilst Dixon and Mr Bell walked quickly ahead, they walked slowly, companionably enjoying the last of the day's sunlight.

Margaret rehearsed over and over how to explain her behaviour on the train as they walked. Finally gaining enough courage to voice her thoughts, her voice betrayed her by trembling as she did so: "Mr Thornton, I wanted to apologise for earlier."

His step slowed a little. "You may have to be a little more specific, Miss Hale."

Both faced forward, concentrating on the pavement but she could feel him glancing in her direction every few seconds as he waited for her to elaborate.

Steeling her resolve, Margaret took a deep breath. Perhaps she should take his hand again just to show him? It probably wouldn't hurt her cause with Mr Bell either and she might be able to persuade him that they should use that to convince her aunt of their true affection and thus make her more likely to give her blessing.

Her hand shook just a little as she reached tentatively across the few inches between them and linked her fingers through his much larger ones as she had done on the train. His step faltered at the initial contact but he kept moving, staring forward as if avoiding looking at their joined hands. Margaret did the same, sure she would lose her nerve if she looked down.

She gulped thickly: "I am sorry for doing this on the train."

Silence enveloped them, except for the tapping of hard soles of their shoes on the ground.

"And for doing it again now." She added, biting her lip and raising her eyes heavenward as she realised the absurdity of apologising for the very thing she was currently doing.

He still did not speak and she started to doubt herself. "Please understand that I did it because I wanted to convince Dixon that I am serious about marrying you. That is all." She shook her head as she spoke, the need for him to fully understand her motives overwhelming her. Her voice sounded too high and thin, like a child's and she felt ashamed of her failing.

He stopped at her justification, so that he stood a few steps behind her, their hands still joined. Behind his eyes, something had dimmed a little but it was not anger there this time- just confusion. Good. If she had to be this confused, it was only fair that he was too.

Gently, he pulled her back towards him so that they were facing each other, barely inches away and Margaret was glad the streets were now deserted. It was too much again, his eyes burning into hers and now, with clarity, she realised she had been wrong earlier. She did not want to know what would have happened if she hadn't let go. This unrelenting intensity- it was too frightening. She needed to pull her hand free and find Mr Bell and Dixon but she didn't seem to be able to, lost in the darkness of his eyes; they were asking something of her, imploring her but she didn't understand what they sought and felt helpless to provide whatever it was. She wanted to release his hand but he had started stroking her knuckles as she had done to him earlier and now she could comprehend why his breathing had changed so when the tables were reversed. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he would notice and she couldn't breathe at all, wanting to gasp for air.

"Margaret?" One simple word he gave her- one that she had heard a million times over in her lifetime but never before had it seemed to hold so much gravity, so much significance. His voice broke a little at the end and it made her heart judder absurdly. "Why are you doing it again now?"

It was a fair question. The problem was she had no idea how to answer it.

Desperation crossed his face and she wanted to run, to get away from the responsibility she felt to rectify that desperation. Why should she be expected to solve this riddle he was setting her when it didn't even seem to be her truthful answer that he was looking for?

The reason she had done it again had been to convince Mr Bell, of course! To assure him that she was being completely transparent with Mr Thornton, that they had an agreement, which they had both been happy with. Yet as she turned to see where her godfather was, she realised he and Dixon were now so far ahead they were not even a blot in the distance anymore. They were probably back at their lodgings for the night and definitely unable to see them so why was she still doing it? Even after telling herself to let go?

It was too confusing and her mind was so muddled that she couldn't seem to find any words, let alone the ones she needed. Instead she turned away from him, starting to walk in the direction of the hotel and pulling him with her, their hands still joined together. He followed, his face unreadable as the intensity passed but he did not let go. For the remainder of the journey they walked like that, not looking at each other, their sides still bumping together every few steps as they crossed the cobbles. Thank goodness the street was empty and no- one had seen them, for it was completely inappropriate behaviour in public, even for a married couple let alone two people who were not. They might be away from Milton, but Margaret did not want her reputation unfairly being smeared further.

Oddly, as soon as she spotted Dixon and Mr Bell sitting in the entrance of the hotel, was when she finally managed to untangle herself, before their two companions could see her hand was ever entwined with Mr Thornton's.

Margaret was sure she was blushing furiously again as Mr Bell kissed her cheek and bid her farewell until Friday, and she felt a little faint. Every stress of the past few days seemed to have hit her once and all she wanted was to be alone from it all, alone from Mr Bell and Dixon and most of all him and to just forget it for a moment. Dread set in as she remembered she was to share with Dixon, and would not be alone until tomorrow night.

Silently, an odd tension filling the air between them, the three walked the stairs to their rooms and paused just outside. Dixon surprisingly politely bid Mr Thornton good evening. She tried to usher Margaret inside their room but she refused, telling Dixon she would be along in a moment and finally the maid relented, the small click of the door signalling that she was out of ear shot.

She had decided. It was time to tell him all of what had transpired that night at the station. Despite the strange atmosphere between them, her unspoken anger at him for lying and acting in a most absurd manner over helping her contact Mr Bell, she trusted him. She had wanted to wait for Fred's letter, to know for sure that he was safe but now that didn't seem to be related to Mr Thornton knowing at all. The two things were mutually exclusive. He would not betray her and he would not betray her brother, regardless of his status as a magistrate.

"Mr Thornton, I promised I would tell you about who I was with that night when you saw me at the station and I will uphold my part of the bargain." She stared at her hands, afraid of what she might see if she looked onto those brown orbs again.

"That night…"

"You do not have to tell me, Miss Hale." He cut her off; his voice sounded funny, as if something was distorted, or broken. She realised he was not looking at her either, instead focussing on his hands.

"I release you from that part of our agreement."

She swallowed, confused more than ever and an unpleasant weight settled in her stomach at his words. He had been so clear that he wanted to know, stressing it after the fact and now he didn't want to anymore? He had judged her quite unfairly and implied she was wrong to keep it from him and now he had changed his mind? She had thought she knew him yet after the revelations of today, she felt she had been wrong. She did not know him at all.

"I will not make you tell me. I do not need to know."

Her mouth hung open a little, convinced she had still not heard him correctly but afraid to look up and find out.

"But you see, I would have told you earlier. It was only that…"

Now she had begun, she floundered, unsure how she should reply to that. Was she to insist and tell him anyway? She wanted to with every fibre of her being, but if he didn't want to know then she supposed she shouldn't. Was he regretting their entire deal or just that part?

"If you tell me, it cannot be because I forced you…" he trailed off, his deep voice having become deeper still. She was about to reassure him that she did not feel forced when he added: "Besides, I fear it won't make any difference."

Baffled she shook her head. Any difference to what?

"But the rest of our agreement remains unchanged?" She asked quietly, doubting everything she knew all at once. She forced herself to look at him then, and instantly could tell that he was gathering himself, preparing, standing taller than he was before, and he was monitoring his facial expression, forcing the calm, uncaring façade that she was becoming so used to.

"Of course. If it is still agreeable to you then our agreement still stands."

The prickle of anger threatened to flare up inside her and she gritted her teeth with the effort it took not to snap at him for his childish behaviour.

"If it was not agreeable to me, I would have told you. I think you know that." Her voice was flat and unaffected and she was secretly quite pleased to have controlled herself so well.

His forehead creased and she could tell he was struggling with some demon, threatening to break through the calm but he pushed it away.

"Sleep well, Miss Hale and I will call for you both in the morning." He pushed his key into the lock of his room and opened the door a jar.

"Good evening, Mr Thornton." She was too tried to pretend again and it sounded forlorn to her own ears. The set of his jaw softened and he let go of the door. In one deft movement, he had grasped the same hand he had held twice that day and brought it to his lips. His eyes met her wide ones as he softly kissed it, a lingering kiss, before retreating quickly to his room without looking back at her.

Sinking back against the door to her own room, Margaret released a breath she had not known she was holding and air flooded back into her lungs as she again inhaled normally. Her heart, however, was more stubborn and remained beating at an alarming rate for far longer than she cared to admit, even as she had gathered herself together, changed and lay in the uncomfortable bed opposite Dixon.

"Are you really intending to marry Mr Thornton, Miss Margaret?" Dixon's voice startled her in the gloom and she jumped violently. She had assumed the maid was asleep already and was hoping to avoid talking any further tonight.

"Yes, Dixon. I really am." Her answer was assured but her heart ached anyway. She did not receive a further reply.

Within minutes, Dixon was snoring and Margaret remained staring intently at the ceiling above her, as if it could provide her with answers to the questions that were rapidly forming in her muddled mind.

She knew she would not sleep tonight. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel her hand in his once again and the same urge to flee returned, but even in her subconscious, she could or would not. He was there, ever present waiting, begging for her to give him something and although she did not know what he sought, she somehow understood it was something she could not give.


	6. Chapter 6

Hello readers. Thank you for your reviews over the last two weeks. I am sorry for the delay with this chapter, but I was on holiday visiting a friend at Oxford University funnily enough. Many of you have been longing to hear Mr Thornton's thoughts and so I have obliged. I know a couple of people are annoyed with Margaret and feel she is being unfair to Mr Thornton- I feel the same and think she is also unfair to him in the book, but then she is only 19 and we believe he is in his early 30s. They are going to be at different places in matters of life and love, which is one reason I think she is so mortified when John proposes for the first time in the book. Margaret hasn't got the maturity to understand and deal with what she does or does not feel and isn't mentally at the same place he is yet. Anyway, please do keep reviewing, they are lovely to read and always give me things to consider and re-evaluate, for which I am most grateful.

Happy reading. Elle. X

…

Until the fateful day he had met Miss Hale, John Thornton had prided himself on his impenetrable resolve and natural flair for commanding authority. The morning she had charged so forcefully into his life, his world had started to tear a little at the seams. Of course, he had known the very moment he had laid eyes on her that she had the advantage in the situation. His correspondence with her father had told him he would be meeting a clergyman and his daughter but he foolishly had been expecting a little girl of perhaps nine or ten, clinging shyly to the side of her father. Instead, he had been greeted by an extremely self-possessed young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties who had arrived late, without the man in question anywhere to be found and commanded him to sit with such ease that he had done it before he had chance to remember his displeasure at being kept waiting. It was market day and he was expected back at the mill and he had been just about to leave when she had finally arrived. Miss Hale had regarded him with nothing but a polite but quiet cold demeanour at the time and surely could not then have known how she affected him so, indeed, he himself did not understand it until later, but he had realised his admiration for her confidence from the start. She was not like other Milton girls- girls like his sister, Fanny, who were concerned with fashion and idle gossip and she was certainly not shy in showing that she considered herself above that sort of nonsense. Now he knew he had probably fallen in love with her almost immediately, despite his annoyance at her demeanour and apparent disregard for the social pleasantries of the north.

It was not just her beauty, though he could not deny the instant attraction he felt for her physically. It was an attraction he had not previously allowed himself to feel for a woman- he did not have the time, and besides, his mother had distilled in him a displeasure at young ladies who were not inclined to dedicate themselves to anything other than sewing and playing an instrument- young ladies like Fanny. He had been annoyed by and yet in awe of her ability to ponder on topics she found important and deliver her considered opinion with no regard for how it would be received.

The day Miss Hale had thrown her arms around his neck for his protection he had well and truly been lost forever; the crimson of her blood on the white collar of her dress staining his heart had tipping his resolve over the edge. The possibility, no matter how small, of losing her had made him realise how far he had fallen- he had known that he would always love her, no matter what her feelings towards him were- or more appropriately were not. Her rejection of his first proposal had been a stab to the heart and he had wanted to hate her. He knew that it was to her chagrin that he loved told her that he would love her still in spite of her repulsion and also to his mother's distain. To be sure his mother's hatred was enough to encapsulate the hatred of two people. This want- no- _need_ to hate her had magnified the night he had seen her in another man's arms at the station. Everything he had thought he knew about her had been shaken. Above all, he had thought he knew her to be morally sound but her stance, that embrace, left him with little choice but to believe he had been wrong. She would not have fully compromised her maiden modesty without marriage, he was sure of that. She was the daughter of a clergyman and firm in her morals, but what he had seen was evidence enough that she had in some way given herself to another. Perhaps part of him had hated her then, for a while, since hate and love were so closely aligned, but to his immense shame he knew that if she showed just one sign of loving him back, he would forgive everything and implore her to be his once again, regardless of the very real possibility of a second rejection ruining him. He had tried- oh how he had tried- to forget her and indulge his sister's attempts to pair him with Anne Latimer and, whilst Anne was a lovely girl of good moral standing, she could not hold his attention in every way like Miss Hale. At first, after the rejection, he had tried to carry on as normal, continuing his lessons, but the scene at the station had stained him and he couldn't do it to himself any longer. He would cover for her- some might say lie for her, despite his hatred of liars- but he would not condone her actions and he would not torture himself. Yet, absenting himself from her company altogether had not eased the ache of his heart but only intensified it a hundred-fold as he found himself seeking her out with his eyes at every turn, only to be disappointed when she was not there. It was as if he needed to see her to reconcile his belief in her moral compass and stature- a belief so at odds with the poisonous image of another man embracing her at the station.

Seeing her there in his office yesterday had made everything shift yet further. He could and would not deny it- Margaret Hale was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on and his heart had nearly beaten out of his chest at the sight of her dark hair, dishevelled and cascading down her back and the wind induced flush to her cream cheeks. To his shame, he had endeavoured to remain impassive. He had wanted to hurt her as she had him. He had acted before, when visiting her mother, before she died, as though she simply wasn't there, but in the confines of his office with just he and Miss Hale, that option was lacking in practicality.

It was a matter of self-preservation of course. He had told her that he would always love her but that he would not display it and he intended to stick to his word.

The sight of her tears, however, had nearly broken his resolve, even before he knew of her true grief. Of course, he had felt sadness for the loss of his friend and the empty place he would leave in his heart, but his very soul could not bear to see his Margaret before him so distressed, her small body wracked with sobs as she stood broken before him. His arms had moved towards her of their own accord and he had drawn her to him as tenderly as he could with featherlight touches. No other part of his body was touching hers as he waited, certain she would push him off and rebuke him, but she had not. Her head had come to rest upon his chest and he had felt the coldness of her cheek against his shirt, penetrating through to his chest and his heart had raced alarmingly in response, threatening to burst forth from his chest as he clasped her more fully to him, one hand caressing the soft blanket of her hair, leading down her back to the base of her spine, where his shaking hand would dare to go no further.

Then she sprang back from him and he felt the cruel stab of rejection again. His heart must have betrayed him for surely, she had felt it through his skin and shirt. The haughtiness he had seen so many times before, her adamant denial of any misconduct in her actions had taken over and he wanted to hate her again- more than ever, yet even then he had been unable to make himself feel so, instead assuring her of his services if needed. In spite of her physical rejection, her attitude of superiority, her refusal to be dissuaded from her far-fetched ideals and her continued harsh comments to him- in spite of everything, he had loved her, wanted her more than ever as he watched her walk away from him. It had dawned quickly on him that if he did not act, he may never see her again for her only option now would be to return to London with her Aunt, turning her back on Milton, on him, forevermore.

He could not bring himself to read her father's letter, abandoning it to stare at her from his office window for just a moment, drinking in the sight of her dark figure, before one of the men had disturbed him to ask for his help with one of the looms and he had turned his back on her for the moment knowing that he must decide. Either he must lay himself bare once more, completely vulnerable in the knowledge that it was highly likely he would burn or nurse a broken heart and spirit for the rest of his life.

Forgotten, the letter from Mr Hale had lain disregarded on his desk and he completed his work, quickly secure in the knowledge that he would propose again, but not as before. It would be better to have part of Margaret, a marriage without her love or physical affection but her companionship, conversation and he hoped her respect for now he knew he would be haunted without her; better to be haunted by her and the marriage he longed for than without. He would offer her a partnership- a chance to remain in Milton with someone who would respect her views- invite them even- and make a real difference. He would offer her friendship and equality. More importantly perhaps, he would not degrade her, ask her to participate in an act that should be borne from love, that she could not be an equal in. More than anything, Margaret was passionate in everything she did and he would not make her do something for which she could not display her passion. A partner, in life and in business, however was something he knew she could devote her full passion to, if not him.

However, John Thornton was not a complete fool, blinded so by love that he could not see her imperfections. No, he knew she was flawed as much as he- stubborn, young and clouded by her impenetrable but naive sense of right and wrong and he knew she was human. It had been foolish of her to display her feelings for the man at the station so openly, where anyone could have seen and he did not wish to think of what other mistakes she may have made for the cad's regard. Whatever she had done he needed to know- that would be his one condition- that they start their partnership truthfully. If she loved another, even if she had made love to another, he could live with it if he only knew. Not knowing was too much, the thought of another man having a part of her that he would never have, making his insides twist violently. Secretly he hoped that if she had done the latter, it might end his torment and a life without her love or physical affection might be less painful. Yes, if he only knew for sure that it was the case, although he would never stop loving her, he might be able to easier live with the knowledge that she had loved another but chosen a partnership with him anyway.

For hours he had pondered, pacing the length of his office and then the mill floor, each stride cementing his resolve that he must offer himself to her like a lamb to the slaughter and reap whatever she may sow. Despite his wishing and reasoning he had not truly expected her to say yes. In that one word, she had both shattered his every hope and granted it at once. It had happened, he could not have her body but he would have her mind and that was as much as he could ask for.

As she had asked for his help he had known before she had even finished speaking that he would do whatever it took. His reason told him that she had only accepted his offer to make him help her but his heart and mind told him not to listen- assuring him that he knew of her character and she would not trick him in this. Her face as he rounded the corner of her street was truthful- he was sure of it. Regardless, he had not told his mother. It had been ungentlemanly to appeal to her when she was grieving so and his conscience squirmed uncomfortably in the knowledge that she may not have been entirely herself when she chose to accept him and may feel differently in the morning. Still, he would help her no matter what. It would be difficult for Mr Bell to change the date of her father's funeral so close to the planned date barely two days away, not to mention expensive. He would escort her tomorrow as she had requested but he feared it would be too late. By the time they could arrive half way across the country, it would be mid-afternoon at best and possibly too late for Mr Bell to call the undertakers and others involved in the funeral. It would cost him far more than he should be spending when the mill was in such a state for the ticket alone, but he must send a man ahead to implore Mr Bell to act fast. Without delay he had penned a letter explaining her feelings and that she had asked for his help and begging Mr Bell not to tell her of his words when they arrived. He sent a man with money to contribute to the additional costs by the 9pm train to Oxford, that he might arrive in the early morning and catch Mr Bell early enough for the man to act.

John Thornton knew Miss Hale. She had asked for his help, but she wanted to be the one to speak to her godfather herself, to feel that she had taken control of her father's resting place so he did not tell her of what he had done and embarked on the journey with her and Dixon the following day in order that she might be the one to talk to her godfather. He had withheld the truth from his mother, claiming that business was taking him away from Milton over-night and left Higgins in charge of the mill. It was the first time he had not been entirely truthful with his mother but he knew she would not approve of his extravagance in paying for four train tickets across the country and a man for his time and effort in delivering his correspondence as well as contributing to the funeral of someone who was not family. She would hate Miss Hale still more and he could not allow that to happen- he did not wish to hear her scorn. Of one thing he was certain- he would not tell his mother the true details of his marriage. He could not stand her pity, and he reasoned, it was none of her concern. Even in a marriage of convenience some things should stay between a man and wife.

Finally, as he had lain in bed, contemplating the events which were sure to follow in the morning he had remembered the letter, still lying untouched on the desk in his office. It was too later to return to the mill that night but he had grabbed it and placed it in his pocket before leaving to collect the two ladies from Crampton.

Then Miss Hale had called his proposal a sacrifice, unable to see that he was not sacrificing anything he could have had with another, when there was only here, would only ever be her. She had said that she was not missing out on anything she wanted, which should have pleased him but it did not. Instead, he was sad to think that she did not understand the passionate, abandoned and fulfilling love she was missing out on by settling for him.

Then, she had asked him why he offered her a partnership rather than marriage as he had before and he had not been able to say the words- to tell her that he loved her more than ever and could not let her leave him forever, but also would not ask her to compromise herself for him. She must know why. Deep down she simply had to have worked out the state of his feelings; he could hear it in her voice and feel it in her touch.

As ever, her scorn of him was not to be avoided and she had been angry at him for not telling his mother and believing she would change her mind, but failed to see that she too had not told Dixon and had questioned him- implying she had thought he would change his! Her hypocrisy riled him and yet he loved her all the more for her rage, a sign of her passionate nature. Then she had told Dixon, as if to prove him wrong about her had grasped his hand, the soft skin of her thumb moving over his and he had allowed his act to shatter, staring unashamed at her, imploring her to explain her actions. He knew to her they must be entirely innocent. She was younger than he and must not understand what her touch in such an intimate way would do to him. He wanted to resent her, his self-preservation instincts taking over, but he could not bring himself to be angry, too lost in her eyes, the feel of her hand and the way his heart responded to her. The scale of his task throughout the rest of his life in resisting his desire to display his affection to her, however, hit him with an immobilising force.

To his dismay he had let himself down in the last few minutes of their journey, unable to remove his eyes from her as she so vehemently tried to avoid his, her innocent intentions apparent. She was not trying to mislead him, to make him believe her affections had changed; her lack of feeling for him merely blinded her to what her actions might be doing to him and as he scrutinised her face he was reminded again how young she must be- perhaps younger than the twenty-five years he had first thought and he was annoyed at her for making him love her and showing him what a fool he was for allowing that iron resolve he had been proud of for so many years to crumble before him.

Closing off his emotions had been easier from that point onwards, bringing to the forefront of his mind that detestable image of the man at the station and he had remained cold for the rest of the day, until that walk. That wonderful, hateful walk back to the hotel, where she had apologised for taking his hand on the train and then took it again. This time she had not let go and the thick, expectant atmosphere he had felt before settled around them. He had sounded desperate when he asked her why she was doing it again, and he was. He needed to hear the rejection that would surely come, the confirmation that it was part of the act to persuade Dixon and Mr Bell that they were doing the right thing but if did not come and the confusion clouding her eyes had prevented him from asking again when she did not supply a reason. In that moment, he had known that it did not matter who her lover was and what they may have shared. He already hated himself for having practically demanded it of her in the first place and he would not be that person. If she told him, it needed to because she trusted him as a friend and not because he had asked it. It would not make any difference to his feelings-loving her in silence would never be easy; whatever her reasons were, she had chosen to accept him and he did not, could not regret his offer of a partnership. If he had heard the reason for her grasp from her own lips, if she had been able to voice it, he would not have kissed her hand. As it was, he had done it and then fled before he could experience the consequences of his actions.

It was then that he had remembered the letter from her father and hurriedly read its contents. It was not a long letter and straight to the point. He had not expected his friend to beg him to marry his daughter. It appeared the older man may have suspected his feelings towards Miss Hale but his imploring tone and clear desperation suggested that he could not appreciate the full extent of his passion towards her. Still, it made no difference now and in the darkness, he stored the letter back in his jacket pocket and had mourned the loss of his friend.

Now, lying in the small bed in the same hotel room in Oxford with the sunlight seeping lazily through the gaps in the curtains, John was in a foul mood. He had not slept for more than a few minutes and his eyes, no doubt, were red rimmed from fatigue. It might not matter who her lover had been and what she had done in terms of his feelings for her, but he had been an idiot to think it did not matter at all. Stubbornly, the thought had still plagued him throughout the night, scenes of her in another man's arms and bed, mixed with her father's voice imploring him to save his daughter, shamefully infiltrating his mind and making him sick and resentful by the time the sun rose over Oxford. He hated the man who had taken a piece of what he wanted so badly but could only hope that he had loved her as much as himself.

…

It felt to Margaret as though she had barely closed her eyes when she was woken by sunlight, seeping through the gaps left in the curtains. Visiting the place of her father's death had awakened a fresh wave of sadness and she had spent the night tossing and turning, the hollow ache in her stomach refusing to quell enough to let her sleep for any length of time and the deep-seated roots of loneliness seemed to have settled into her heart.

Her mind had raced at a hundred miles an hour, pondering over why Mr Thornton would spend so much money helping her and bring her all the way to Oxford if he was prepared to send someone with a note that would have solved her problem of getting a letter to Mr Bell on time. Still she had no real answer but she suspected the kiss on her hand last night probably had something to do with it. The feel of his lips on her hand still burned into her pale skin and, although there was no physical mark, she felt as though she was branded by it just the same. Oddly, she thought, the feeling, despite its sting was not unpleasant and that troubled her all the more. Her annoyance at his refusal to hear her reasons for lying about being at the station with Fred had not dimmed at all and that was beginning to override her mind, confusing her thoughts and putting her in a terrible mood.

In the morning sunlight, that yesterday would have made her smile, Margaret's eyes hurt and head ached and as a result Margaret spent the morning alternating between wanting to cry and wanting to hit something. She had barked at Dixon when they were getting ready to leave, and remained silent for the rest of the time. When they met up with Mr Thornton, it did not escape her notice that he too looked as though he hadn't slept and was equally tense. He directed his companions into the carriage and then the train politely but without speaking more than strictly necessary and Margaret did not follow him this time, choosing instead to wait wearily beside Dixon, whose frown of disapproval was firmly reinstated but Margaret paid it no mind. She was keen to be back in Milton and despite the foreboding task of telling her aunt of her engagement waiting for her upon return, she was excited to be reunited with someone who might be an ally and hoped more than anything that Edith might have returned from Greece and accompany her, then Margaret might have a confident to share the unusual nature of her relationship with Mr Thornton with.

The train journey began much as the carriage journey. The three companions were quiet, keeping to their own thoughts and a strange and slightly hostile atmosphere pervaded through the carriage. Strategically, she had sat beside Dixon and opposite Mr Thornton so that she might look out the window without having to peer past Dixon as she had yesterday and found the time passed much faster with the scenery outside to focus on rather than her self-pity. She only removed her eyes once to scowl at the source of her annoyance as he accidently hit her arm when reaching to put her bag on the rack above her head and he did an excellent job of pretending not to notice he had done it, which infuriated her even further.

To her surprise and annoyance, Dixon's mood seemed much improved and the further the train travelled from Oxford, the more she began to try and engage both Margaret and Mr Thornton in conversation, seemingly delighting at the clear awkwardness between them. However, dismissed by both targets numerous times, Dixon did not last long before she had slipped into sleep and her heavy, even breathing filled the carriage. This time, Margaret and Mr Thornton did not speak, instead avoiding each other's gaze, the atmosphere between them now a different kind of tension, heavier and suffocating.

Twice Margaret was sure he had been staring at her as she gazed out the window at the changing scenery, but as she had turned her own eyes to his face, he had been looking out the window after all and she returned to her task. Was the rest of their life to be like this? Constantly walking on egg shells and taking two steps forward to then take three steps back? She hoped not- it would be too much to bear. How could anyone spend a life time with someone who she could not even remain on friendly terms with for more than a few hours?

Feeling his eyes on her for the third time, she finally caught him staring. He did not look quickly away as she thought he would, his impassive expression impeccable except for a faint blush beginning to creep across his cheeks. Those dark eyes were sad again, something in them defusing her anger and making her feel a little ashamed of her behaviour. He had really hurt her when he would not let her tell him about Fred. She was about to open up to him and prove she trusted him as a friend and he had broken that trust. Perhaps he had done to her what she had done to him when he had proposed to her after the riots. The thought made her squirm uncomfortably.

Well, he might be able to pretend not to care about anything with his facial expressions but he could not with his eyes. Suddenly, she did not want to fight; she wanted to draw a truce, regardless of who was at fault, and make whatever this unsettled feeling between them was disappear and thank him for all he had done for her, but the words would not come. Instead she smiled at him. It was a small closed lipped smile but it was a transparent and honest smile that spoke all the words she could not voice and she hoped he would take it as the peace offering she meant. Another piece of her broken heart re-grew a little as he smiled back at her, equally small but open and honest and she knew it was an acceptance of her silent apology.

'Friends should smile at each other,' she thought, vowing to make more of an effort to do so in the future. When they broke eye contact, it was awkward once again but somehow it was different, no longer heavy and hostile and more understanding.

More at peace than she had been for days, Margaret relaxed her upright posture, leaning back into the carriage seat and allowing herself to close her eyes. She could tell he had done the same, his legs brushing hers as he repositioned and it was not long before she could see that he had fallen asleep.

She studied him then, making the most of the opportunity to do so without judgement. There was something comforting about the soft rise and fall of his chest and for a few minutes she was mesmerised. He looked tired and thinner than when she had first seen him that day at the hotel, over a year ago now, where they met, and tired even in sleep. Like this, he didn't look so imposing and the prospect of spending the rest of her life with him as his friend did not seem so impossible or unpalatable at all.

The rhythmic movement of the train and the thudding of her head got the better of her and soon she too allowed sleep to take her.

Margaret had not woken until the train juddered to a halt in Milton Station and Dixon gently shook her awake. Mr Thornton's carriage dropped the two ladies back at Crampton and the man himself had carried their bags inside. As he had two nights ago, he tipped his hat to Dixon. Her heart had stilled as he reached for her hand, thinking he was going to kiss it again but he did not, grasping it in his own and shaking it before retreating to his carriage. Margaret watched the carriage pull away and then he was gone and she was not to see him again until her Father's funeral.

…

The next couple of days were lonely but productive and she and Dixon had managed to box up the majority of her parents' belongings from her father's office and their bedroom. Margaret had found herself feeling more at sea than ever and bursting into tears every five minutes as she stumbled across another item belonging to one of her parents, that only heightened her grief. She had managed to find a likeness of both her parents with her and Fred and she had placed it safely away so that she may look at it and remember happier times when the grief threatened to overwhelm her.

Since Oxford, Dixon had not mentioned Mr Thornton and her intention to marry him at all and Margaret was thankful to be spared more questions, the concept a distant spot on the horizon rather than an approaching threat.

Thursday afternoon brought with it three visitors. Margaret had been packing up the last of her father's belongings in the sitting room when Aunt Shaw swept through the door and gathered her niece into her arms without warning and launching into a speech of sympathy for her unfortunate position. Margaret could not deny it, she was pleased to see her aunt and even more so to see Edith with her. Her joy was only slightly dampened by Henry Lennox's arrival. Thankfully, he did not embrace her as Aunt Shaw had and Edith also did, but he did bow to her and pat her on the shoulder before sitting down with the two ladies. The three had barely been there three hours before whole mood of the house seemed to have picked up and Dixon was happier than she had been in months, bustling around and bringing tea and more cake and biscuits every few minutes, despite the fact that they had only eaten lunch together a few hours before, her aunt and Edith chatting non-stop about Greece and the gossip she had missed in the upper circles of London society.

Tired from their journey, and walking Milton, the visitors had requested one of Dixon's most prolific dishes for supper and the maid had practically burst with pride as she served them. Having made their way into the partly packed up sitting room, Aunt Shaw, brushed her hand over the cushions of the chair beside her several times, wincing as she did so before gingerly taking a seat.

"Thank goodness we have arrived to take you away from this place, Margaret!" She looked disdainfully down at her father's chair as she did so and Margaret bristled a little at the judgement of her parents' taste, the happy air covering her sadness, which the guests had brought with them fading a little. Aunt Shaw had passed comment on her distain for the Milton smoke, people, buildings and many other things as they had walked, but it hurt to hear her criticise her parents' belongings nonetheless.

"Why is it so dirty here?" Edith asked innocently. "All the buildings are so dark. Why aren't they painted white like the houses in London? It looks so much cleaner and neater- don't you think, Margaret?"

"People here would find painting houses white a waste of time, I fear, Edith" she replied kindly. "Besides, the smoke from the factories would just stain it back again." She had missed her cousin dearly and did not judge her too harshly for her ignorance.

"Oh, yes the factories look ghastly! I do believe we passed one on the way here and I could not stand to look at the dirty great thing…" Aunt Shaw twittered, her voice high and loud for effect as she looked over her audience expectantly.

"Oh yes, Mama, you would never see such a great dirty eyesore in our part of London." Edit agreed casually and Margaret wracked her brains how to manage the situation before this conversation got too far and she offended someone in her defence of the place.

"Tell me about you, Edith!" she interjected loudly. "How is Sholto?" Truth be told, she was pleased her new nephew provided a reason to change the subject and had been keen to hear about him too.

"Oh, he is a darling! You would love him so much, Margaret!" Edith practically leapt on the subject, her voice brimming with joy as she spoke about her young son.

"He looks just like his father and is equally as clever." Aunt Shaw added proudly. "Such angelic blonde hair! You must play with him when we get home, Margaret. He will be most pleased to have another person to play with."

"Will you be taking Margaret home soon, Mrs Shaw?" Asked Dixon, innocently, addressing the woman reverently, but her eyes would not meet Margaret's, which were shooting daggers at her.

"I will take her the day after the funeral of course" Aunt Shaw affirmed easily and nodding profusely. "Dixon, you will remain here to pack up the belongings of my dear sister and Richard and meet us next week." Aunt Shaw's reply was matter of fact and Margaret groaned internally.

"He is with his nanny at the moment, of course." Edith continued her stream about Sholto as if the conversation had never diverted, taking Margaret's hand in hers so as to command her attention entirely. "Captain Lennox is still in Greece working so I had to leave him with her. When Mamma received your reply to her letter to say the funeral would be tomorrow, in Milton, I knew I needed to come but could not bear to bring Sholto to a funeral! He would cry so!" Edith had grasped her hand harder as she spoke and squeezed it and Margaret squeezed hers back, smiling a little at Edith's assumption that a one year old would realise that he was attending a funeral.

"It will be excellent practice for you to play with Sholto, Margaret. For when you have your own children, I mean." Henry joined in; it was the first thing he had said directly to her since arriving and Margaret flushed from embarrassment at his pointed look in her direction. She knew she should break the news of her arrangement with Mr Thornton to her aunt as soon as possible, but Henry's presence had prevented her. It had been over a year since his untimely proposal in Helstone, but she still felt it would be bad form to inform her aunt of her engagement to another man in front of him, especially as they had been good friends and she did care for him in that way. However, his comment derailed her and it seemed dishonest to withhold the news any longer.

"Henry, Dixon, would you mind excusing, Aunt Shaw, my cousin and I for a moment? I must speak with them." It was a question but left no room for disagreement, or so she thought.

"Oh, there's no need to excuse, Henry and Dixon, Margaret. You can say anything in front of them." Her aunt waved her arm in Henry's direction affectionately and Margaret's discomfort grew.

"I am sure, Aunt Shaw, but I really think…"

"Come, now, Margaret, Henry has escorted us all the way here and he has been so excited to hear you will be returning to London with us." Henry coloured slightly but did not deny it. "He even wished for us to hold a party in your honour when the grieving period is over."

"Oh yes, Margaret, you can say anything in front of Henry and Dixon I am sure." Edith unwittingly hammered the final nail into the coffin leaving Margaret with no choice.

"Well, Aunt Shaw, thank you so much for coming to Milton and for offering to take me back to London but I will be staying in Milton."

Three reactions came at once, bombarding her.

"What are you talking about, Margaret?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"I've tried speaking to her Mam." Dixon positively shouted her response, looking between Margaret and Aunt Shaw rapidly. All three turned to Margaret for her answer but she kept them waiting, thinking of how to formulate her explanation.

"Do not tease your Aunt so, Margaret; it is not becoming." Henry broke the expectant silence, his voice laced with judgement and patronising as if she was a naughty child that needed correcting and all thought of cushioning the blow fled her mind.

"I must tell you that I am engaged to be married and will be staying in Milton."

Four gasps greeted her. Dixon brought her hand to her mouth as if hearing it for the first time and Margaret felt the absurd urge to laugh at them all as she viewed their varying degrees of horror.

Aunt Shaw recovered first, exclaiming: "Impossible! Why would you want to be married to someone who is from here? What kind of man can he be? What can he offer you?"

"Everything I want, Aunt Shaw." Her response shocked even herself, but it was true. She wanted to be respected, her opinion to be listened to and she wanted to help others and Mr Thornton was offering her all of that.

"How much money does he have to live on a year? It cannot be a lot if he chooses to live in this grimy place!"

"I do not mean money Aunt Shaw, what care I for fortune?"

Edith was opening and closing her mouth over and over like a fish and Margaret tried hard not to look at her.

"How much can he care for you if he will not move to London?" Henry questioned, his eyes hard and unbelieving.

"He cannot move to London because his mill is here. He is the master of one of the mills in Milton."

"A tradesman!" Aunt Shaw picked up a book from the small table beside the chair and began to fan herself frantically with it.

"You cannot mean Mr Thornton of Marlborough Mills, Margaret! The one you wrote to me of, that you cannot abide?" Edith's voice was shaken but she was interested, Margaret could tell. She had forgotten she had written that to her cousin and instantly regretted her words. They were untrue now, and in truth, probably were then.

"Things have changed since then, Edith." She assured her cousin, taking her hand again. "I would have written to tell you but my parents… I could not find the time or inclination to…" She was choosing her words carefully, trying to avoid lying to Edith most of all.

"Oh Margaret, do not apologise- did you mistake true love at first sight for hatred?"

Margaret very nearly laughed out loud at that. Edith read too many romance novels and of course she would assume that if Margaret accepted a tradesman it must have been as a result of some epic love tale.

"I was wrong, certainly." She smiled kindly at her cousin, thankful for her sudden acceptance, aware of Henry's beady eyes fixed unrelentingly to her face, but she did not allow herself to be intimidated.

"Oh Mama, if Margaret is in love with her mill owner you must give your blessing to the marriage!" she exclaimed excitedly, appealing to her mother and Margaret's heart sank as she realised she could never tell Edith the true nature of her agreement with Mr Thornton. She had been a fool to think her cousin might understand and it saddened her to realise Edith was exactly like so many other contradictory girls who thought true love and money were entwined and marriage without either unacceptable.

A glance at her aunt told her that still the fanning continued.

"Oh Mama, don't be so old fashioned. Margaret's in love! And we would get to plan a wedding."

The cogs in Aunt Shaw's brain seemed to be slowly turning and the fanning paused.

"Mr Thornton, as a mill owner, has a very high status in this town, Aunt Shaw. He is a magistrate also so he has many responsibilities and he is certainly not poor! He will provide for me and any children that follow." She swallowed loudly on the last part, all too aware that no children would follow from a marriage like theirs, unsure why she had added it at all.

"This does rather ruin my plans, Margaret. I had hoped you and…" her cousin glanced at Henry but trailed off upon the realisation of how he would feel if she continued. "Well, love really does conquer all, Mama." She finished, determined to end on a positive note.

Finally, Aunt Shaw spoke. "Well, I cannot stop you Margaret but I urge you to think carefully, whether this is what you really want. Don't be like your mother and clouded by silly romantic notions. Love cannot provide a home."

What she really meant was don't be like Margaret's mother and marry someone without an acceptable amount of wealth like her father, a lowly clergyman with a healthy living but not extravagant.

"Believe me aunt, I want to marry him." She tried to sound confident and felt she had succeeded when she saw Henry's face drop. Guilt coursed through her as she thought of how tough this conversation must be for him but comforted by the knowledge that it was only his pride being hurt, not his heart. He did not love her, not really, not like Mr Thornton had.

"Well, I had better meet him then!" She conceded, doubt still evident in her voice but not defiant. "Let us speak no more of upsetting things tonight. There will be plenty of time tomorrow at the funeral for that."

Quickly directing the conversation back to Sholto and the many toys Edith and Captain Lennox had found for him in Greece, Margaret tried her best to include Henry in the conversation, hoping to ease his suffering and to his credit he obliged her by displaying no resentment. Dixon had the good grace not to look at Margaret or speak to her for the rest of the evening, even after the visitors had headed for their hotel and Margaret did the same, taking herself to her bedroom the moment they were gone, without a word.


	7. Chapter 7

Hi readers,

Apologies for the longer wait. This is a rather long chapter to make up for it. This one is a bit of a filler chapter to be honest and there were a few things that I needed to tie up. Thank you for your lovely reviews and ideas. They always make my day so please do keep them coming- I love to hear your thoughts.

I hope you enjoy this chapter but let me know wither way.

Happy reading, Elle x.

…

John had thought it best to tell his mother before the funeral, lest she hear it from other sources. He had not made his way to Crampton since he had escorted the ladies home. He had wanted to- oh, how he had wanted to- see her again and bask in the warmth of that smile from the train, the one that made all the trials he knew were still to come, fade into insignificance and left him completely disarmed. Unfortunately, he was denied that pleasure as every waking moment had to be devoted to the mill and the continued recovery from the strike. He had intended to visit that evening and make arrangements for the funeral tomorrow, but Higgins had told him that when Miss Hale visited Mary that morning, she had been expecting the arrival of her Aunt and he had not wanted to intrude.

Since returning from Oxford, John had avoided his mother as much as possible, one positive of throwing himself into his work at the mill and being out until after dark. As he could have predicted, his two days had left him with a growing pile of work, despite Higgin's capable handling of business whilst he was gone. Sometimes as he passed her in the hallway and they exchanged the usual pleasantries; her eyes had lingered on his form for longer than usual and he had thought she must know he was hiding something. Of course, she would know; she knew him better than anyone and he was not in the habit of keeping things from her. No- she knew he was hiding something but she would not ask him. She knew he would tell her when he was ready and so she waited and he avoided.

It was late by the time he arrived back from the mill and darkness had descended over the courtyard, bringing with it a contented silence. She would be waiting for him in the sitting room as always- pretending to sew or read but in reality she would be waiting for him to tell her what had really taken him away from Milton. He had not told her about the passing of Mr Hale, for then, without a doubt, she would know whom had taken him away, if not where he had gone to or why. Despite her disapproval of the Hale family, she would want to attend Mr Hale's funeral and so it was only right that he tell her before the morning.

The house was silent when he walked through the door and bolted it shut behind him, hanging his coat and scarf on the old wooden coat stand. The warm flicker of a candle cast shadows on the wall behind him from where it could be seen through the open door to the sitting room and John braced himself, pausing to peer into the room before entering. As he had predicted, his mother was waiting for him, some knitting in her hands and her eyes trained on her work without looking up to greet him. It was not often that his mother knitted or performed other such crafting tasks so she must have expected to wait up for a long time before he returned.

"You're going to tire yourself out working such long hours, John." Still she continued with her ministrations, squinting as she counted stitches over the top of her spectacles. "It is not far off midnight and you left before five this morning."

He walked towards her. "It will not be forever, mother. We will recover from the strike." He sat on the couch beside her and rubbed his hands over his tired eyes, as he stifled a yawn with the other.

His mother sighed and counted her stitches one last time before placing the knitting on the side table next to her and shifting a little to face her son, bringing a hand to smooth his ruffled hair from where he had run his hand absentmindedly through it.

"Are you alright, John?" She asked tenderly, her hand coming to rest on his hunched shoulder.

"I am just tired, Mother."

She did not press him for a moment, letting a comfortable silence settle over the room except for the crackle of the fire.

His mind turned over how best to reveal the news to her. Deciding that there was no ideal way to say it he tentatively began: "Mother…"

"Just tell me John." Her face was guarded but not harsh and he released a large sigh before answering. He may as well just get on with telling her. She had probably guessed by now anyway.

"Earlier in the week, I made Miss Hale an offer of marriage and she has accepted me, Mother."

The woman's eyes widened a little and her lips pursed but she did not chastise him or insult Miss Hale as he had feared.

"What changed to make you wish to offer again?" Her voice had let a little of her displeasure through, but he could tell she was trying to remain impassive.

"Her Father died almost a week ago now, whilst he was visiting a dear friend in Oxford and his funeral will be held tomorrow. The news of his death prompted me to act."

She nodded, her eyes analysing his face closely, the faint hint of pity crossing her face as she took him in.

"And what of the gossip surrounding her. Will her lover not have her?"

He shook his head sadly. "I can only presume that it is not an option for her to marry him."

"So, she'll have you now she's got no-one else and her reputation is in decline, will she?" Her tone was not unkind but he could hear the prickle of resentment. John had known her reaction would be such, but it still hurt to hear her harsh words, especially since he knew there to be an element of truth to them.

"I know you do not think kindly of her, Mother, but I could not bear to see her leave Milton. I love her still more than ever. I did not tell you earlier of our engagement as I wished to make sure, Miss Hale would not change her mind…"

"Change her mind? Again? Oh John, she will not change her mind now that she has no-one left in the world!"

"She assures me that her wishes will not change but I can hardly believe that she will have me." It was the truth, self-doubt seeping into the crevasses of his mind.

"John, we've spoken of this before. You are entirely worthy of her, despite all her empty airs and graces. She is a silly little girl but perhaps now she has finally seen sense and realised your worth. If she has, then I am glad of it if it is what you want. Though you know I believe you could and should do better."

She gripped his shoulder tightly, before rising to her feet and putting out the fire. "Do not worry, John. I will not try to stop you. You must do what will make you happy and I will support you but do not ask me to like her."

"I only ask that you show her courtesy and respect her as my wife."

She did not verbally reply but instead nodded her assent and gave him a resigned smile, before bidding him good night and making her way upstairs.

"Mother?" He followed her into the hallway.

"Will you accompany me to the funeral tomorrow and try to make polite conversation with her family?"

She sighed in despair, her shoulders rising and falling in her exasperation. "I will, John, and we should invite them to dinner, so we might begin to make arrangements for the wedding. I trust you will both want the wedding to be as soon as possible?"

He nodded gratefully, understanding how difficult his mother would be finding the news.

"Then we will invite them to dinner following the funeral tomorrow or the day after if they wish to be alone as a family."

...

Margaret had flippantly described a walk to church similar to this, once before. At the time, she had purely mentioned it at all as a comment on how out of hand elaborate London weddings so often were- a result of being tired of the spectacle or exhibition her cousin's wedding planning had become. In the end, Edith's wedding had been beautiful- there was no doubt about that- but far too over the top for Margaret's own taste. She had only meant to express her wish for simplicity- she hadn't specifically been talking about her own wedding but Henry had misunderstood, confusing her meaningless comments and assuming she had been trying to insinuate her own wish for a wedding. The day was cold but bright and the sunlight hurt her eyes and Margaret felt that even the weather was against her, taunting her with sun on the day when she felt the most misery.

Now as she walked arm in arm with the same man-at her aunt's unrelenting insistence- Margaret could not help but think that everything was wrong. Her dress was the customary black, heavy, and on loan from Edith. The lace adorned skirt, fell beautifully to the ground, rippling at her feet as she walked but her corset was a little too tight (Edith's doing), meaning her steps were careful and considered so as to avoid constricting her chest further. It was a particular annoyance to her, as she wished to walk quickly to escape being alone with her current companion for any longer than strictly necessary.

Henry had again been in attendance as her family arrived at Crampton early that morning. To her dismay, Aunt Shaw had announced that she would not be joining Margaret as she had a head ache coming and was sure such an event would make it worse. Edith too would not be joining as she was also feeling a little under the weather and so Margaret was forced to be accompanied by Henry. She had hoped that Mr Thornton might have arrived to escort her, but he had not. Margaret supposed he had no right to think badly of him for this- they had made no arrangement so why would he? And no doubt his mother would have prevented him from such a thing in any case.

As they walked arm in arm, Margaret silently seethed, assured that there was nothing wrong with her aunt or cousin and the situation had been orchestrated by both so that she would be forced to spent time with Henry alone. Edith would not have thought of such a plan and would have been persuaded by Aunt Shaw to play along in the charade of illness. As it was, Henry had neither spoken to her or looked at her since they had left the house and she was glad of it.

Approaching the church, Margaret could see a small group of people gathered together outside. Quickly, she unhooked herself from Henry's arm and continued the short walk alone towards the waiting group. She had already been unfairly judged for harmless physical contact with a man and certainly did not care for it to happen again. Mrs Thornton and her son were on one side of the winding path and Nicholas and Mary on another. A couple of other men Margaret did not recognise were also in attendance, presumably students her father had taught. The small number should not have shocked her; her father did not know many people so of course she could not have expected many to attend and see him buried, but it shocked her nonetheless. Her heart ached at such a small gathering to pay their last respects to the man who had meant so much to her and a hint of resentment towards Edith and Aunt Shaw rippled through her, for their betrayal in leaving her alone with Henry who was not really even family.

"Is that him?" A voice came quiet and close to her ear, making her jump. Henry was gesturing in Mr Thornton's direction, whose back was facing her, and she nodded in response, moving a little further from her companion.

"You don't have to marry him, you know."

Margaret sighed. Part of her had suspected that he would try and speak with her on the subject again, but she had vehemently prayed that he would not. Her skin crawled a little at the implication of there being no other option than for her to marry.

"Henry, please don't. I told you yesterday, I have my own free will- I want to marry, Mr Thornton."

His expression showed disbelief even before his words did.

"We could be happy together, Margaret. We could easily rent rooms near Edith and my brother so you could be around your family..."

Margaret smiled kindly at him but it was a small smile that did not reach her eyes.

"Seeing more of Edith, Captain Lennox and Sholto would indeed make me happy to some extent, but that's not the same thing as you and I being happy together, is it?"

His expression changed to one of bafflement, as if she genuinely had no comprehension of what she meant.

"Please, Margaret..."

"Let us speak no more about it." She cut him off quickly, before he had chance to go any further, feeling instantly guilty when his cheeks coloured and he looked away. In an attempt to soften her words, she linked her arm back through his and together they crossed through the wooden gate at the church yard entrance and to join the congregation. It was good of Henry to come and escort her, after all, and she would likely have to spend time with him between now and after her wedding when her aunt and cousin would likely leave.

Mr Thornton was still facing away from her, talking to Higgins and Mary, as was his mother, though her lips were pursed and the frown dominating her features appeared to wish she was doing anything else. Mrs Thornton turned first, the frown deepening as her eyes swept over Margaret.

"Allow me to offer my condolences, Miss Hale." Her words appeared to be sincere but her usual harsh manner was present making the sentiment sound hostile. Margaret quickly thanked her nonetheless and tried to decipher from the woman's expression whether her son had informed her of the engagement. Her frown implied he had.

At his mother's words, Mr Thornton turned, a small smile crossing his face until his glance crossed Margaret's body to settle on her arm, loosely linked with Henry's. His eyes lingered there, clouding over and the smile dropped. As if burned, she unhooked herself from Henry and crossed the small path to his side.

"This is Henry Lennox, Mr Thornton. His brother is married to my cousin."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Lennox."

Mr Thornton held out his hand to Henry, who shook it, mumbling, "likewise, Mr Thornton", scowling all the while at Margaret rather than giving his full attention to his acquaintance.

"How kind of you to walk, Miss Hale here, Mr Lennox." Mr Thornton commented in his blunt manner that Margaret had often mistaken for disapproval. Somehow in this situation, she suspected she may not be mistaking anything.

"Believe me, it was no hardship, Mr Thornton." Henry replied readily. "I had not seen Margaret since I stayed with her family in Helstone just before they moved here and I had certainly missed her company. I do hope that things between us will return to how they were before she left the south."

Mr Thornton's brow creased at that and Margaret squirmed uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze.

"I had thought Miss Hale moved from London, rather than Helstone?" He addressed Henry but was looking at her all the while.

"She did live in London for some time but moved back to Helstone to be with her parents once Edith was married to my brother and Margaret invited me to visit."

Henry had not said anything directly untrue but the implications of his words were deeper than the reality of which he spoke and she had the distinct impression that his reply was not meant to have an effect on Mr Thornton alone. She hadn't technically invited him, afterall. She had simply made the mistake of speaking a little too freely.

"It wasn't quite like that…" she began quietly, her countenance conveying her guilt.

Still, Mr Thornton could not be too annoyed at Henry since he could have accompanied her himself today if he hadn't stayed away since they returned.

"Shouldn't we be goin' in, Miss Margaret?" Nicholas asked. "The priest will be waitin'." He was right of course and Margaret nodded before leading the way into the small church, which was empty inside, save for Mr Bell and a man Margaret recognised as another of her father and Mr Bell's friends from their time at Oxford, who were both already seated towards the front. Both rose as Margaret reached the front of the church and Mr Bell hugged her as he had in Oxford, whilst she thanked him again for all he had done in moving the funeral to Milton.

"Margaret, we should take our seats. I believe we are ready to start." Henry spoke from behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder as he gently turned her towards him. Margaret had assumed she would have Aunt Shaw and Edith with her to sit with but since that was not meant to be, she supposed she would sit with Henry and Mr Bell who had sat together on the front row.

"Would you sit with me, Miss Hale?" a deep voice came from her other side and Margaret turned. Mr Thornton was towering over her, his arm held out to help her to her seat.

"I can manage, thank you Thornton." Henry replied, offering his own arm on the other side and Margaret flinched. Mr Thornton had not seen her in three days and now seemed to have remembered they were to be married and yet if she chose Henry he would see it as a personal triumph and license to try and bring up her arrangement with Mr Thornton again. Part of her wanted to ignore both proffered arms and be seated away from all of them, but, as she gazed between the two she knew who she must choose. Deliberately avoiding making eye contact with his mother, who she could sense staring at her, she took Mr Thornton's arm and sat beside him, his mother on his other side and Mr Bell quickly asked Henry to sit with him, and his companion. Realising that soon she would be sitting beside him once again in another church, in a very different type of ceremony. Margaret momentarily longed for that day if she could only avoid the pain of this one.

…

The service was short and soon they moved to the cemetery, where her father was to be lain to rest with her mother. As he was lowered into the ground and his grave dedicated, Margaret felt the stab of tears beginning to pierce her eyes. All morning she had been successfully keeping them at bay, but now, as the priest said his final words and Nicholas and Mary moved to leave, she could do nothing to stop their appearance as the sadness of the last few months cut through her heart. Her mother and father were both gone forever and she was alone. Yes- she physically had other people all around her, but she was still alone in the world. For the first time, she was thankful for such a small group being there to remember her father, so that she might escape the company of others more easily.

Last night Margaret had doubted herself- it was momentary and the result of her delayed grief, but she had doubted herself nonetheless. She had doubted that she was doing the right thing in staying in Milton. In London, she would have her aunt and cousin, something she would have been so happy to have not long ago but now she felt she did not belong with them and somehow, standing beside Mr Thornton she felt more of a sense of belonging than she had surrounded by her relatives. They seemed to exist in a different sphere and she found herself enjoying their company, certainly, but just a spectator, no longer fitting into their world. She wanted to believe that they were really ill, but her mind knew better. The betrayal of letting her go to her father's funeral alone, purely to try and influence her intentions was too much to bear and she missed her father more than ever, wishing he was there to comfort her as he had done at her mother's funeral, despite his own grief.

All of her effort was channelled into keeping her tears at bay and she barely registered Mr Bell giving her a consolatory pat on the shoulder and assuring her that although he needed to return to Oxford, he would write to her soon and reminding her to send him a wedding invitation. Henry's urgings to leave were unsuccessful also and eventually he disregarded his pursuit and returned to Crampton alone.

At some point, the others must have left too for when she looked up from the grave as the men had finished their work covering the coffin with soil, and left themselves. So, she found herself alone. Except for one person. One person who she did not have the courage to look at, afraid she would break the promise she had made less than a week ago to never let him see her cry again.

Now, she blinked in the brightness of the sunlight; her nose had started running and her vision became blurred and she knew she could not keep herself from freeing those tears any longer.

"Please, Mr Thornton. I don't want you to see me cry again." She choked desperately, bringing her small hands to her face to hide her tears from his view before they started their descent. Perhaps he would leave and she need not break her promise? No- he would not- it was a vain hope, and she knew it.

Instead, she felt the soft caress of two arms circling her, like they had done once before, as he pulled her into his embrace, his arms strong and leaving no room for resistance this time, in comparison to his previous hesitation and uncertainty. Desperation took over and she buried her face in his shirt gratefully, her head barely reaching his chin, which he lowered to rest on the top of her head, his chin a soft weight as it touched her scalp through the thickness of her simply pinned hair.

"I can see no such thing, Miss Hale." He whispered firmly, his chest vibrating as he did so and, with her face buried into his chest, she believed him.

Margaret finally stopped her efforts, opening the flood gates once and for all. How long she cried into the fabric of his shirt, she did not know but he did not attempt to stop her or move away. All the while he remained still, his hands resting on her back- not moving, except for the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek as she sobbed into the starched cotton. His fast but even heartbeat thundered in her ears, as if it were her own and it seemed to tell her she was not alone. Enveloped in his warm embrace, she could convince herself that once she was married to Mr Thornton, she would never be alone again and her doubts from last night melted away. She didn't want to be without him as an ally. Despite their arguing and his ability to see the negatives of her every move, his heartbeat reminded her that they were to be a team and her determination to tell him about Fred grew. He might not want to know but she would tell him anyway. When the time was right, she would make him listen.

She could not deny it, being so completely surrounded by him like this felt foreign, but she could understand why someone might wish to stand so scandalously. Of course, it was completely inappropriate, even her mother and father had never stood as she and Mr Thornton were, not in her recollection. Of course, they had held her as a child to comfort her but this was different. Comforting-yes- but something else lurked beneath.

Now that the overwhelming tide of grief had eased a little and her eyes had no more tears to cry, she knew she should pull away and return to Crampton but she did not, allowing herself a moment to breathe him in. It was sneaky of her, and wrong but surely as he was to be hers by law if nothing else, she should be allowed to do so? That same sandalwood and cotton smell emanated from his skin and suddenly she became very aware of how wet her tears had made his shirt. It was soaked and thinner beneath her skin as a result. She was sure her cheek could feel heat radiating from his body through the material, making her blush profusely and her gratefulness that he could not see her face heightened. At the realisation, her breathing seemed to catch in her throat as the intent in her actions changed and the heat in the cemetery rose. His embrace no longer felt comforting; it was not unpleasant and she certainly felt no wish to move away but something about it was definitely not comforting.

Her hands had thus far remained covering her face as she cried, but now she slowly moved them, no longer needing them there. She considered dropping them to her side, but that seemed wrong- they belonged somewhere else, yet she was afraid to put them where she knew they must go and yearned to place them.

Gathering her courage, she cautiously moved them to circle his body as he had done to her, her hands sliding beneath his jacket but over his shirt. He shivered as she touched him, moving her trembling hands across his smooth shirt to rest against his broad back and she felt him breathe in deeply, his breath jagged as he slowly let it out. Against her chest she felt his heartbeat race faster and in response, her own joining it as if it were led by his. As he softly kissed the top of her head, she struggled to breathe and those feelings of panic from Oxford began to return with a vengeance at the intimacy of their scandalous embrace. It had been a mistake; she wanted to step away and be free from this feeling and yet her body would not move, rooting her to the spot and making her tremble. Just a moment ago she had felt so safe and secure and now she felt fear- not that he would hurt her but of something else, something she could not decipher that had more to do with her than him. Rather than letting go she clutched him tighter, which only served to make her feel more at sea.

Before she could force herself to step away, the crunch of footsteps on gravel made her blood run cold and both she and Mr Thornton sprung away from each other as though two magnets repelled, only to see Ann Latimer and her father walking arm in arm towards them. Miss Latimer's face displayed a look of such thunder and her father's such shock that Margaret could not help but flinch.

"Thornton. I would not have expected to see you here alone with Miss Hale!" His tone was cold and seeping with judgement as he held his daughter's linked arm tighter.

"No, Mr Latimer, it is unusual but Miss Hale's father died last week and we have just seen him buried. Miss Hale was understandably most distressed and I have offered to walk her home." Mr Thornton's voice shook slightly but otherwise he appeared completely unfazed by the unfortunate intrusion.

Mr Latimer nodded at her. "I had heard. My condolences, Miss Hale."

She nodded her thanks and stared intently at the floor

"You may wish to be careful, Thornton. You will find other people less forgiving of your noble actions than I. People may misinterpret." He had returned his attentions to Mr Thornton and Margaret did not miss the thinly veiled threat and instantly felt guilt for her part in their indiscretion. If she wasn't still in shock and riddled with guilt for tarnishing the good reputation of Mr Thornton, Margaret may have responded in an impolite manner but her companion was more composed than she and spoke before she could do anything other than gape in annoyance.

"Thank you for your advice, Mr Latimer. Thankfully I have no interest in the gossiping fancies of others and neither does Miss Hale. Had you heard that we are to marry?" Miss Latimer gave a dramatic intake of breath at that and her face darkened further, shooting daggers at Margaret, though she remained civil, congratulating them at the encouragement of her father.

"I had not. Congratulations." His face suggested his words were not sincere but Margaret thanked him anyway.

"We should probably leave, Miss Hale. I fear the nice weather is not going to last much longer. Good day, Mr Latimer, Miss Latimer." He offered her his arm and waited for her to respond. Silently she took it and together they left the cemetery behind, not pausing to look behind them.

Margaret Hale reflected on her own idiocy as they walked. She had allowed herself to be seen in public in a compromising position for the second time and surely now her reputation really would be in tatters. How ironic that everyone had spent the last few days telling her that she did not have to marry Mr Thornton and now she suspected that even her aunt would make her as soon as she heard the gossip that would no doubt circulate! And the position she had been found in if anything would be judged as more intimate than the open armed embrace she had shared with Fred. It was more intimate. She was also in no doubt that Mrs Thornton would think it was entirely her fault when she heard.

He was troubled too, she could tell from the agitated arch in his eyebrows and the way he was nibbling his bottom lip as they walked: "I am sorry, Miss Hale. I take full responsibility for our unfortunate situation. Please forgive me."

For some reason that annoyed her more than if he had blamed just her for their current predicament. She was just as involved as he was, possibly more so as it was her reputation that would be ruined rather than his, since she was, according to his mother's words the day she had visited her following her mother's death, so lowly thought of anyway.

"Why have you not come to see me since we returned to Oxford?" It was off topic, blunt and rude but her still pounding heart needed to know. Their entwined stance a moment ago did not fit in with his apparent avoidance of her since Tuesday and yet he could not be ashamed of their engagement as he had so brazenly told Mr Latimer and Ann without a second thought. She could not understand his motives at all.

He stopped walking, his frown deepening and his voice took on a defensive edge.

"I am sorry, Miss Hale. I have been catching up on orders at the mill. The days out have put us a little behind. I did come to your house to escort you this morning…"

"When? Why would I have not have known?" Wanting to be able to see him fully when confronting him, she unhooked her arm from his. She had never been able to control her feelings when she was annoyed and her questions had come out as accusations.

To his credit, he had sounded sincere but it did not make sense. She would have been aware of him calling!

"Dixon said your family were all there and you have arranged to go with them- I had no idea it would be just Mr Lennox, I had thought I had heard your aunt…"

"But you did not insist on staying to see me?" 'as you did before' she wanted to add but did not, her voice already having risen above the necessary level.

"Miss Hale, must you constantly, try to see the worst of me in everything I do?" The words seemed to be ripped forth from him, his hands flailing in agitation. His question and raised voice caught her off guard. Never before had he shouted back. How dare he! She was doing no such thing! It was he that was doing that to her!

"I did not know whether you had told your family of me and our arrangement yet and didn't want to put you in a difficult situation. Besides, I am already taking you away from your family by keeping you in Milton with me, I could not justify stealing you from them then when you needed them most…"

Oh dear. She was still annoyed but thrown off a little- she had not thought about it like that. Signing, she felt a little of her anger leave her. Her temper really was a curse, constantly getting her into trouble and then leaving her to deal with the consequences. It seemed it was a flaw she would never master.

Calmer, she sulked, "I didn't choose to come with just him. We used to be friends and I didn't want to offend him by refusing. My aunt and Edith were so adamant that he escort me and I did not wish to make things more awkward between Henry and I than they were. I'd already told him about our engagement so I didn't think it would be a problem."

"I am not sure he sees it that way." It was instant and matter of fact, leaving her no space to try to argue. In honesty, she was unable to truthfully contradict him but also did not want to betray Henry by elaborating any further. She raised her chin a little defiantly, but nibbled her lip agitatedly, without reply.

"Is he one of the other men you spoke of when you said you had not learnt to refuse a man?" The silence that followed was expectant, and his tone of nonchalance had returned and Margaret rolled her eyes as she cringed. She should have known her words would come back to haunt her one day- they always did- and she blushed at being caught.

"He is the only man I spoke of."

His eyes analysed her face as if he could not quite believe her but he nodded anyway, before walking on.

She trailed a little behind, struggling to keep up as she winced with each step as her corset cut into her skin and she cursed Edith's admiration of a small waist. "Are you jealous, Mr Thornton?" Her eyebrow was raised in question and a slight tease to her voice.

"Do I have something to be jealous of, Miss Hale?" His was not teasing and the sincerity for some reason made him seem small and vulnerable, like a child, for all his height and imposing stature. In honesty, there had been moments when she had confided in Henry, particularly before Edith's wedding, but there was no love there. He respected her, of course, but he wanted to own her. No partnership was offered there-the very thing she had accused Mr Thornton of when he had proposed after the riot.

"If he had offered you what I have, would you have accepted?"

That pulled her from her thoughts made her pause. It was not a matter of not knowing how to answer. That was clear to her without thought. No- it was how sure she was of the answer that made her pause and ponder.

"No. I would never have accepted Henry."

"Why not?"

"He would never have considered offering what you have. That is the difference in your character."

For a long time, he still stared, scrutinising her face as if trying to decipher her meaning, before offering her his arm and leading her on in the direction of Crampton when she accepted. Silence settled uncomfortably between them and neither spoke until they reached the street of her house.

"My mother wishes to invite you and your family to dinner, if they are feeling up to it, of course." Somehow, she suspected they would be feeling quite well now they'd had a rest, and be pleased to join the Thornton's for dinner.

"You told her then."

"I did. She accepted it quite well."

Margaret pondered for a moment. "Did you disclose the nature of our marriage to your mother?" She would not blame him if he had but she wished the details could be kept between them, something they had that was not his mother's or anyone else's.

"No. Did you to Henry… And your family?"

"No, why should Henry need to know?" She had asked confused. He was not truly family so why should she have any cause to tell Henry of all people? What was his obsession with Henry? His relief was visible but illogical to her. She chose to ignore it: "I am glad you did not tell your mother. I feel that should remain between us. It is none of their business… none of them."

He breathed a noticeable sigh of relief and she was pleased she had chosen not to confide in Edith after all.

"I am so glad we agree on that. Can we agree to keep all matters of our marriage between us?"

"We can" she replied, a small smile creeping across her lips at his conspiratorial tone, despite her annoyance, as she realised this was possibly the first time they had truly agreed on anything. What great steps they were already taking to becoming friends.

"Do you think your Aunt and Edith might feel well enough to join my mother and I for dinner tonight? We should set a date for the wedding and fill in the relevant paper work to obtain a marriage licence. I do believe we may need to marry quickly before the gossips of Milton, including Fanny, get out of hand. I am sure Miss Latimer will not hold back the details and she and my sister are good friends, I believe." They had reached the steps to her house now and she stopped before them, turning to face him.

"They will make it."

Suddenly, the reality of imminently marrying Mr Thornton hit her and her stomach twisted in response at all that that entailed- a guaranteed ally but one who would legally possess her, even if he would not enforce his rights as a husband. In the short term she was not looking forward to being in close proximity to Mrs Thornton after such an emotionally draining morning but she supposed she had to at some point and it might help to keep herself busy and out of the house rather than surrounded by her parents' possessions. She paused on the step, one hand resting on the door knob.

"Shall I tell my mother to expect you at 6pm?"

"Yes. 6pm" she agreed. "My aunt is going to be difficult. I will have to try and persuade her I cannot be without you," she added thoughtfully.

He nodded slowly but did not comment or meet her gaze and Margaret could not tell what he was thinking.

"I would not have wanted to be without you today. Thank you. You have been a true friend."

He made a small sound as if he did not believe it in the back of his throat. "I have not, Miss Hale. I may have caused more trouble than good, I fear…" He trailed off and his brow creased with worry again as he stepped back. She wanted to say something else before he left, to thank him for staying with her and for walking her home but her stomach was filled with nerves as she realised they were truly alone in this street and the last time they had been alone they had ended up with their arms wrapped around each other in a most scandalous manner that was likely to come back to haunt them. Once they were married, who would know if they were to embrace like that in his home? The thought was both appealing yet more personal and terrifying than doing so in public view and her heart began to race faster at the thought.

"Well, I am glad of your actions regardless." She had whispered it, self-conscious as though this was the most she had ever revealed of herself to him. In an odd way, she felt as though she just had and the vulnerability made her heart thud louder.

The intensity she saw reflected in his eyes, made her forget to breathe for a moment, and her heart stopped completely when he stepped forward, closing the gap between them and raised a hand to her face, gently moving a strand of stray hair that had escaped from her hairpins in the wind. His eyes were scrutinising her lips which she licked self-consciously.

He wanted to kiss her. She did not know much about men but some instinctual knowledge told her he wanted to kiss her. What would she do if he did? Shamefully she allowed herself to acknowledge that she had no idea. Thankfully, he did not- perhaps he saw the fear in her eyes- and blinking several times, he stepped back instead.

"Forgive me, Miss Hale…" He muttered before turning from her and fleeing. Alone Margaret stood staring after him, her heart still thundering but allowing the flood of sadness from that morning to come flooding in.

…

As predicted, Edith and Aunt Shaw had pounced on the invitation once they had satisfied themselves by criticising the Thornton's thoughtlessness in inviting them to dinner on the day of the funeral, when they were enveloped by so much grief for their relation. Thankfully, dinner had been a fairly quiet affair with her aunt complimenting the food and house. Margaret was seated opposite Mr Thornton and she had spent the majority of the dinner trying to avoid looking at him, which wasn't hard as he was clearly trying to avoid looking at her.

Margaret was almost relieved when, as soon as talk turned to the wedding, Aunt Shaw's polite restraint had broken. Margaret could tell how much effort is was taking Mrs Thornton to be civil to Aunt Shaw and Edith from the start and feared it would not last forever. Henry had decided not to join them, much to Margaret's relief, for Aunt Shaw and Edith were a handful enough. Between her aunt's regular criticisms of every northernism she had been exposed to and Edith's half-whispered but easily discernible constant reference to Mr Thornton's height or appealingly troubled brow, Margaret did not have the energy to manage another person.

In fact, Aunt Shaw had not yet mentioned Henry and she wondered whether his return alone earlier had spoken enough on how successful that vein would be. He had not been at the house in Crampton when she had returned and she had not seen him since yet clearly it was too much to hope that she would agree to planning the wedding without resistance.

"All I ask is that Margaret return to London with us for a period of at least six months so she can be sure that she is making the right decision."

Margaret could not help but zone out during the conversation, exhaustion from the stress of the day beginning to take hold, but that caught her attention. She knew a hasty wedding might be looked down on but that was preferable to her by far than returning to London for six months. How was she to help with the mill and improving the conditions of the workers if she was to be away for so long!

"Aunt Shaw, I could not return with you for six months. Can you not see that it would upset me so to be away from here?" She knew she should have probably said it would upset her to be away from Mr Thornton but by the time she thought of it, it was too late.

Aunt Shaw was relentless: "You are too thin and too serious here, Margaret. No, the best course of action is for you to return with us and spend some time with Henry talking through your options."

She turned to Mr Thornton: "Henry was of great comfort to her for many years and if she did not feel so attached to her father's wishes to remain here, I believe she and Henry would be married."

Margaret saw the flash of pain in Mr Thornton's eyes, though he tried to avoid looking at her across the table. Aunt Shaw could be vindictive; she had seen enough evidence of that at her high society parties. Margaret knew her aunt had figured him out in an instant and could tell her efforts to have Henry play a prominent role at the funeral had been successful in making Mr Thornton doubt himself.

"If Margaret still wishes to marry your son in six months then so be it, but I am sure she will see all London has to offer her in potential suitors and all of this will be forgotten."

"London gentlemen really are very accomplished." Edith added, her innocent expression implying she valued her contribution to be a great help.

"My son is…" started Mrs Thornton, her polite shell beginning to crack open but she did not get any further. Her manner displayed no anger, purely cold superiority.

Margaret was too tired to take it any longer.

"Enough, Aunt Shaw!" She commanded, rising from her seat in her agitation, the scrape of her chair on the stone floor making everyone flinch. "I will not be returning to London and talking with Henry. I will be staying here and marrying Mr Thornton as soon as possible."

"Margaret, you are grieving and cannot…"

"Do not treat me like a child! I know what I want and what I want is not Henry. If I wanted Henry, I would have accepted him a year ago!"

"You refused Henry… a year ago" Edith's mouth hung open in shock as she started at her cousin incredulously.

Margaret circled the large table to stand beside Mr Thornton who was looking at her with nearly as much surprise as the rest of the group. She rested her hand tenderly on his shoulder.

"Can you not see that I cannot bear to be without him?" Her words echoed her concern earlier and felt empty. It wasn't a lie. Certainly, she didn't want to be parted from his respect and his allegiance but it was a line she had prepared.

"If you cannot support me in this, you are free to leave but I would appreciate having the only family I have left at my wedding."

Aunt Shaw sniffed, wounded and Edith dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "If you are sure, Margaret, but I fear you are making the same mistake as your mother."

"If she had not made that 'mistake' I would not be here Aunt Shaw and I am not making a mistake. Believe me, I have not made this decision lightly.

"I believe my son and Miss Hale wish to be married quickly Mrs Shaw. Let us just say that they are so in love that I think it would be prudent for them to do so."

"Oh, I see." Aunt Shaw paused, looking at Margaret in a scandalised manner and Margaret cringed, wondering what her aunt suspected her of doing. "Let us not delay then." She finally finished.

"Thank you, Aunt Shaw." Margaret sighed with relief and removed her hand from its resting position to return to her seat. In her passionate plea she had quite forgotten Mr Thornton was even there but now he took control, suggesting a date in couple of weeks' time and listing all that would need to be done.

Edith's happy demeanour had quickly been restored and was helpfully suggesting flower choices as Mr Thornton and his mother tactfully made all the appropriate expressions of thanks and awe at her knowledge of the available options.

"Why Margaret, we must choose your dress as soon as possible! They take ever so long to make. Will a dress from here do? I cannot believe them to be of the same quality as London!"

"There's no need for that Edith. I can just wear a dress I already have." Margaret sought to quickly put an end to her cousin's extravagant ideas.

"Margaret, of course you can't!" Edith exclaimed looking horrified. "Not on your wedding day!"

"It's true, Miss Hale that it would be better not to cause gossip by hinting that this is a rushed wedding." To her credit, Mrs Thornton had phrased it tactfully but Margaret understood the meaning clearly. He had told her about earlier. She had been caught in enough compromising positions, and implying that the wedding had been in the planning for longer would certainly not harm their own reputation.

"What do you think, Mr Thornton?" Aunt Shaw had asked, as though testing him to see if he would respond with the correct answer.

"I think Miss Hale, would look beautiful in anything but it would please me if she could choose a wedding dress for herself. Something new for the occasion as it is symbolic of a new start."

Aunt Shaw nodded approvingly, whilst turning to Margaret and adding, "You see?"

"However, Miss Hale has not often chosen to listen to my words before and I have no expectation for her to do so now." His slight smirk put her more at ease and she remembered all the times she had done the exact opposite of what he asked just to spite him.

Edith smiled at his joke, commenting that he knew her cousin so well but Margaret kept quiet. She was surprised how much she cared about him approving of how she looked and although daunted by the task of selecting a gown felt a small twinge of excitement at the thought.

"There is much else to do but no doubt Fanny will be more than happy to help with the arrangements, Miss Hale, if it is agreeable for me to ask her." Mrs Thornton asked, her, her polite air returned and Margaret thought how like his mother Mr Thornton was. Both could so easily switch between cold indifference and warm civility.

"Of course, Mrs Thornton!" pleased not to have to deal with so much herself.

"It is settled then." Stated Mrs Thornton. "I believe my son and Miss Hale have many formalities to discuss so let us adjourn to the couches beside the window so they can do so without disruption."

The three others rose and made their way to the other side of the room, Edith's excited voice carrying across to where they stayed at the table.

Mr Thornton did not speak at first and Margaret did not know what to say so remained silent as he found some paper work and searched for a pen.

"If you wish to go with your aunt for six months and make sure you are making the right decision, I shall understand." Instead of facing her, he continued to rummage for a pen and Margaret was a little hurt that he was not upset by the concept of her leaving for so long.

"I do not wish to." She did not feel the need to elaborate.

Finally, he found a pen and returned to his seat.

"Then, I need to know your date of birth for the marriage license." He asked, pen poised.

"It is October 10th." The scratch of nib against paper seemed to echo over the voices of the other occupants of the room.

"Year?"

"1840."

"You are nineteen?" His reply was quick and the inflection on 'nineteen' showed his surprise as his eyes darted to meet her own searchingly. Margaret bristled a little at his reaction, suddenly self-conscious. Had he thought she was younger or older?

"Well, I am nearly 20. Not that I see why it should matter…" She raised her chin, slightly ashamed to realise she was conveying the air of haughtiness, her brother had so often accused her of, but really she could not help it.

His eyes searched her over as if evaluating her truthfulness before composing himself and writing her answer into the space.

"It does not matter, Miss Hale." His reply was matter of fact. "I had merely assumed from the way you conduct yourself, that you were a little older than 19."

"Oh." Margaret did not know what to think of that, unsure whether he meant it as a compliment or an insult.

"What is your age?" She asked indignantly. In her haste, she had sounded like a child and sighed annoyed at herself.

"I am thirty-one."

"Thirty-one?" her own surprise was poorly masked and she felt a little guilty for her annoyance at his own reaction. It was not that she had thought that he was younger, more that she had not given any thought to his age at all. It did make sense that he was older as he had told her off the hardship he had suffered as a boy when his father died and Margaret felt foolish for not having thought of that earlier. No wonder he so often seemed to be judging her; perhaps he saw her as a silly little girl, twelve years younger than himself and full of stupid ideas. Surely, not though, when he had made such an effort of asking her for her opinions and offering her marriage as a way for her to help him with the mill?

"Does it matter?" he asked her softly and she could hear a rare prickle of insecurity there as he mirrored her words.

Margaret thought for a moment. "No. It does not matter at all." She answered.

He continued his writing, adding her parents' names and his own parents' names to the paper.

"Mr Thornton?"

"Yes, Miss Hale?"

The time had come. Finally, he would know that it was Fred who she had accompanied to the station that night, Fred who Leonards had briefly fought with and Fred who she was so desperate to protect that she had lied to the policeman.

"That night at the station…"

"Miss Hale, please don't…" He had sat up stiffly and seemed to be trying ot put as much distance between them whilst remaining in his seat.

"No, John, I will not let you stop me out of some unnecessary guilt on your part!"

Mr Thornton's mouth closed abruptly at her use of his Christian name as she had known it would.

"I am not telling you because I feel obligated- I am telling you because I want to and because I trust you. I trusted you before, but the secret was not mine to tell! Will you not hear me?"

"Yes, I will hear you." He answered and for a fleeting moment she thought she could see relief cross his brow.

"Margaret, I fear it has grown late and we must be leaving. You have sad such an upsetting day and we need to get you to bed now. Come." Aunt Shaw interrupted gathering her shawl and handing Margaret hers. What was Margaret to do? She could not tell him in front of her aunt.

"I need a minute more with Mr Thornton, Aunt Shaw." She begged, knowing it was pointless. If she could just tell him now, she could relax a little in the knowledge that they were to marry with his good opinion of her hopefully restored as much as it could be.

"No, Margaret, I must put my foot down. You are shattered. I can see it in your eyes- look, you can barely keep them open."

"Aunt, my eyes are fine."

"Margaret, mother is right, you look half asleep already. Let us leave now, we have much to talk about tonight!"

She could see Mr Thornton was disappointed but he did not move to contradict her aunt and Edith. "Never mind, Miss Hale. If you still wish to, you can tell me when we next meet. I promise you." He had risen to see them out and there was nothing she could do.

"When will I next see you?" She asked. Would he stay away from her so long again as he had done this week?

"I think it best if you do not see too much of each other before the wedding day." His mother answered instead. "We would not want to encourage too much gossip around the town."

"I fear my mother may have a point." Mr Thornton finally answered and Margaret nodded resigned.

"I will write to you with any needed details and will you write to me?" he asked, his eyes penetrating hers as they said their last words before his mother and her family.

"I will." She answered, assuredly.

"I will miss you." He added. It sounded like an afterthought and Margaret wondered whether it was for the benefit of her aunt than for her.

"And I you," she added, before turning and leaving with Aunt Shaw and Edith who thanked Mrs Thornton profusely.

As soon as the front door was safely closed the tirade of criticism began but Margaret did not listen, still pondering whether Mr Thornton had truly meant that he would miss her and whether she truly meant that she would miss him.


	8. Chapter 8

Hello readers. Thank you once again for reading and your reviews. As always, I have enjoyed reading them. I know it was a bit of a longer wait for this one and I am sorry. I wanted to say so much in this chapter but just didn't have time to do so. It ended up being a rather long chapter but I really couldn't make it any shorter. I do appreciate that as she was still in grieving Margaret would have had to marry in black (we studied some periodicals from the mid-1800s in lessons and read about the wedding dresses worn by those still in mourning- they were basically plain black dresses with no jewellery), but I couldn't bear to have her wear black so you will have to indulge me in letting her wear something prettier for one day. 😊

Hope you enjoy it and please do keep reviewing.

Elle. X

…

Aunt Shaw's prattle turned to anger, erupting as soon as they had exited through the gates of Marlborough mills. "Of all the nerve! They do not at all possess the sensibilities of Londoners, that much is clear. Did you see the way his mother commands everyone as if she is the queen?"

"They certainly have more money than I expected, Mama." Edith added with a concerned look at Margaret, who got the distinct impression she was trying to be diplomatic.

"I do believe Mrs Thornton meant to suggest that she knew more about your relationship with her son than I do, Margaret!" Her Aunt shook her head as if in disbelief.

"In fairness, Aunt Shaw, she probably does, purely because she has been here to watch our interactions for more than a year now. I am sure she was just trying to be helpful." Margaret tried to mollify the situation. She had no doubt that Mrs Thornton meant to imply exactly that, but she could not blame her since it was the truth.

"And what on earth could the woman mean to suggest that you are so in love you must be married quickly? I know myself and the dear captain were a society match rather than for love, but I do believe I know what is socially acceptable. A period of six months to think and grieve would be most appropriate and yet she acted as though I was a pariah for suggesting such a thing."

Margaret bit her lip self-consciously and buried her hands into the pockets of her coat. Something soft was concealed in the depths of one and she stroked the now familiar stitching of his initials between her forefinger and thumb. She had honestly intended to return his handkerchief but here it lay still, and its softness served to make her bold.

If it were not for Mr Latimer and his daughter seeing her and Mr Thornton's scandalous embrace this morning, she would have had no objections in delaying the marriage, except for the prolonged need for her to act as though she were in love with Mr Thornton. As it was, there could be no question. They must marry quickly and, in a way, Margaret was thankful for Mrs Thornton's harsh manner and insistence that the wedding be within the next couple of weeks. Still, perhaps the formidable matriarch had not been as transparent with Aunt Shaw as was needed.

"Aunt Shaw, the reason Mrs Thornton is so keen for us to marry quickly is to protect my reputation, I fear."

Aunt Shaw took a sharp intake of breath, stilled and grabbed hold of Margaret's forearm with an iron grip.

Margaret steeled herself and continued.

"As it is, Mr Thornton and I have been seen in public in a completely innocent but misinterpreted embrace. He was merely comforting me in my grief, but I do feel a short engagement would be most appropriate in light of the circumstances."

Aunt Shaw's scandalised expression was mirrored perfectly by Edith and Margaret shoulders sagged a little.

"When was this 'embrace'? Where was it?"

"Today, after they had buried Father, in the grave yard."

Aunt Shaw dropped Margaret's arm from her grip and Margaret rubbed her wrist to bring the circulation back. When she looked later, she was sure would find marks from the tightness of her aunt's grip. One hand was now balanced on her aunt's hip and the other rubbing her temples as she turned from Margaret, who could almost see the cogs in her brain whirring.

She was pleased to have the burden of their indiscretion off her chest, but hurt by her families' apparent horror at what was yet again a completely innocent action. Almost completely innocent. It was true that she had known she should have stepped away from him as soon as her tears had stopped but she hadn't. If only her aunt or Edith would speak and end this awkward frost that had settled over them. After all, if her Aunt and Edith had only accompanied her to the funeral, she wouldn't have found herself in her current predicament! All their scheming to force her to spend time with Henry had simply driven her and Mr Thornton into a situation where they were closer together.

Finally, Edith shattered the silence, entreating her mother to keep walking as it was becoming colder and the sun retreating for the night.

"Then I will object no further, Margaret. No- marrying quickly will be best. When Lady Ashby's daughter danced too closely with the Frobisher boy, they simply married quickly and although people still gossiped, it soon died down. By the time they had that delightful baby a year or so later, it was all but forgotten and everyone was singing their praises. Though how anyone from this dirty place could dare to judge you- a young lady is beyond me. Yes- his mother is correct-that is the way forward, but you will have no contact with Mr Thornton until the day of the wedding. You cannot afford to court anymore scandal."

Margaret didn't think that was particularly fair. She wasn't and never had been courting anything- not even the man she was to be married to. Now, she understood why Mr Thornton had looked so troubled earlier. Apparently, she had underestimated the damage that could be caused by something that had happened for no longer than a few minutes and suddenly felt like a fool for not understanding how disgusted he has seemed at having seen her embracing her what he thought was another man and not simply her brother. Every fibre of her being screamed at her to explain everything to her aunt: that there was no need to worry about any impropriety because she did not feel that way for him, that is was a partnership of convenience and that his misunderstanding of her embracing Fred had stopped any feelings he may have believed he had for her, but she kept silent.

"Margaret, we can and will control the damage. You need a chaperone. You cannot spend anymore nights alone in that house. It is freezing apart from anything, and you and Dixon have done so much packing that there is barely anything left to make the place homely. No, you will come to the hotel with us. You can share Edith's room and Dixon will help me. "

Margaret thought it best not to argue and nodded, following behind her aunt for the rest of the way like a chastised child, Edith casting worried looks in her direction every few seconds.

…

"Margaret, I simply cannot believe that you have kept so much from me!" Edith barely waited for Dixon to exit and close the door to their shared room before her shock and indignation erupted from her. Annoyance was laced into her words and Margaret waited to be told off again for her actions.

"You did not tell me that he is so handsome!" she exclaimed before hurtling over to Margaret's bed excitedly, all annoyance leaving her tone as quickly as it had come. She jumped on top of the covers and curled her legs under as she sat eagerly awaiting the girlish chats they had often shared when Margaret lived with them in London. Margaret sighed with relief at the changeable nature of her cousin and having escaped her wrath.

"Do you think so?" Margaret asked, surprised by the small delight she found herself taking in Edith's approval of Mr Thornton's looks. Before he had proposed the first time, Margaret had not considered his looks at all but since she had found herself pondering on various aspects and had decided that his height had definite advantages. For instance, when providing her with a comforting embrace. His dark blue eyes were quite nice to look at also and sometimes seemed to have the capacity to speak more than a thousand words. And hide more than a thousand words.

"Of course, he is so dark and complicated. I could not live with a man such as he, I have no doubt of that. Captain Lennox is straight forward and focusses mainly on being an excellent captain and making his uniform look perfect- that is why we get on so well." Edith prattled on in her assessment and Margaret had to stifle a giggle at her summary of Captain Lennon so as not to offend Edith.

In some ways, she supposed Edith was right. Margaret loved her brother in law dearly but knew she would never be satisfied with someone as he. She needed scintillating conversation and someone who would value her opinion in debate on matters of moral conscience and someone like Edith's husband could not provide that. At first, Mr Thornton's inability to see the hypocrisy and unfairness in his treatment of his workers had annoyed her and each conversation seemed a battle that he would not let her win, but he had changed a little already and hired Nicholas. She had helped to do that and she was proud of having such an effect in improving the lot of another simply because she had dared to tell a man he was wrong. That sort of conversation would never need to be said between she and a London gentleman. Right or wrong, she had matured enough to know that she would pick that over romantic affection any day. She had picked that over romantic affection.

"Your mill owner has hidden secrets, I am sure of it, cousin! Why, I thought he may do something rash when mama mentioned Henry!"

Something rash. Margaret did not know what to say to that. Still, despite her lack of verbal response, her stomach responded in the most disturbing manner, by fluttering as she recalled the way he had looked at her earlier on the steps of her house, as if he was about to do something rash- as if he was about to damn all propriety and their agreement and kiss her then and there. It had scared her and yet she had not moved away. Although, even now some of the hatred he had shown for her after knowing she had lied about her whereabouts on the night of Fred's departure lingered still. There behind his eyes, it lurked; she could sense the fog of resentment veiling his thoughts and bringing about that impassivity earlier that evening as her aunt tried to make her return to London. Part of him wanted her to go, she was sure of it. If she had only been able to tell him about Fred, perhaps this unsettled atmosphere between them would dissipate.

Edith was waiting expectantly and Margaret desperately grappled for the correct response, eventually settling for, "Yes, he does seem rather concerned by him."

Edith eyes her wearily for a moment before continuing: "He's jealous, I could see that as soon as mother mentioned Henry's name. His face clouded over. I think it is most romantic."

"Yes, I suppose it is." She answered, floundering at the turn of the conversation. Knowing Mr Thornton, his reaction probably had nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with his anger at her for having arrived at her father's funeral with her arm linked in Henry's, whist engaged to him. Oh dear, it did seem a little silly to her now, but at the time she had just wanted to rebuff Henry without hurting him further.

"Oh Margaret, did you really turn down Henry? And a year ago? Why did you not tell me?" she sulked. When Edith was hurt, her voice always took on a child-like quality and it had done so now. Her bottom lip stuck out a little like a toddler sulking and Margaret squirmed uncomfortably. She was not sure she had an answer for that but wanted to placate her cousin. Certainly, not so long ago she would have told Edith everything.

"You were in Greece at the time and I did not want to disturb you. Besides, I found the whole thing thoroughly embarrassing…" she began and it was the truth. The whole concept that Henry would want to marry her was humiliating, but it did not matter, for Edith did not let her finish.

"…I can hardly believe you turned down poor Henry! Are you really sure, you could not find it in your heart to give him another chance?"

Margaret rolled her eyes but felt slightly ashamed at the dismissive action when there was so much hope shining in her cousin's face.

Sadly, she shook her head. "I do not specifically have anything against Henry, Edith, but I just cannot make myself feel for him what he wishes me to feel."

Edith's face dropped a little but the happiness shining in her voice did not fade: "Well, then I suppose given today's turn of events, it is for the best. I must be content to see you marry your Mr Thornton. You can make it up to me by allowing me to help choose your wedding gown!"

"Of course, Edith, I could not bear to pick one without you!" she declared hoping to make her cousin feel needed. It appeared to have worked as Edith leaned over and affectionately kissed the top of Margaret's head before springing from the bed and heading towards her own.

Both girls chatted as they helped undo each other's corsets and changed into their nightgowns, before bidding each other goodnight and climbing into bed.

In the darkness, Margaret laid there, pondering all that had happened over the last week. If only her papa were still here, none of this would have happened. There was no doubt in her mind that he had written that blasted letter with good intentions to give her a choice over her future but now, lying alone in the darkness, images of Mr Thornton's disapproval infiltrating her mind, it felt as though he had instead condemned her. It was unfair of her to think that. Now finally, with Edith breathing heavily in her sleep next to her, she could admit it. Her father would have thought no less of her for choosing to refuse Mr Thornton and return to London and her father's thoughts was not why she had accepted- not really. Of course, she longed for what he offered, respect and no expectations of returning love but there was something else. For some unexplainable reason, she was drawn to him and the power he held over so many people but more than anything she desperately craved his approval- of her actions, her thoughts and ideas and now of how she looked on her wedding day. She had been willing to marry him if only to have his approval rather than his silent hatred.

Oh, how she longed to be able to speak to Fred, to have him here with her and not feel so alone in the world. He wouldn't understand at all but he would listen and not judge her actions as she knew Edith would if she were to disclose the true nature of her engagement. She had finally received a short note from Spain, reassuring her of his safe return but it was not enough. As soon as she was married and had told Mr Thornton, she would write to him and tell him everything.

Lying there in dark solitude Margaret Hale came to a startling realisation. She would have accepted John Thornton if he had offered her a traditional marriage. She would have told him she did not love him but she would marry him and be loyal to him. Perhaps even more startling was that she could finally admit that she might even have said yes without the existence of her father's letter. The irony, of course, was that without her father's letter he never would have asked her.

…

It had been both the longest and shortest two weeks of John Thornton's life since he had said goodbye to Margaret Hale on the steps of his house. As usual the mill had kept him occupied and he had barely had any time away from the mill in which he could have visited Miss Hale, even if her Aunt had not insisted that the pair of them be separated. The woman had made such a production of it that even he himself had for the briefest of moments he had believed that Miss Hale may care for him in the same way he did for her and there was real reason for them to need to stay apart before the wedding, but that moment had passed and reality came crashing in.

In honesty, from what he had heard from Fanny, who was all too happy to report the gossip circulating around Milton (he often suspected it was in fact his sister who kept much of it circulating) it had been made to sound as though Miss Hale was the one who had behaved most scandalously and he was saving her from a ruined reputation. How Miss and Mr Latimer's observations had been twisted in such a matter he was unsure and luckily it appeared as though it had not spread anywhere near as far as he had suspected it would, it was still better that any future gossip be halted.

Even his mother had, which as much tact as she could usually muster, advised him that he should not make Margaret pregnant for a few months so that any further gossip generated by a questionably small amount of time passing before the birth of a child could be avoided. John had blushed profusely before agreeing and fleeing the room as quickly as possible. At least that would not be a problem in their marriage.

Since she had left his house with her aunt and cousin, he had missed her, his mind returning over and over to the image of her flushed cheeks and glistening eyes as she had stood on the doorstep to the house in Crampton and told him she appreciated what he had done in comforting her after her father's funeral. It had taken every ounce of self-control in him to walk away from her without claiming her in some presumptuous way, she would undoubtedly hate him for. He had never considered himself to be a foolish man but now he realised that he was. How easy it would have been to delude himself into thinking she might have welcomed such actions. How easy it would have believed that behind those words there was a deeper meaning, but he had made that mistake before and he would not do it to himself again.

At first, his time had been completely take up by work but after he had kept his promise and written to her. The letter was short but reassured her of his intentions to keep the promises he had made to her about their union, but he was never to receive a reply from its recipient. Instead, he had found one from her aunt, advising him that she would not allow her niece any contact for fear of damaging her reputation. He had been disappointed but thankfully the demands of the mill had kept him distracted.

On the day before the wedding, his landlord Mr Bell had arrived at the mill asking to speak to him. Instantly, he had known it would be about Margaret. After all, in all the years he had rented the mill and house, not once had Mr Bell arrive to speak to him about them- as long as he paid the rent, he was happy.

After the usual social pleasantries, he had bid the man to sit and waited for him to make his real intentions for the visit clear.

"Thornton, she knows what her father asked of you in his letter." Bell sat back, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair and his hands linked together in front of him as if he always visited his office and was completely at ease. His landlord did not mess around and sat waiting for John to react before continuing.

John stilled. Miss Hale knew her father had written to him?

"I'm sorry, Mr Bell, but I really have no idea what you mean." He tried to appear as nonchalant as possible, whilst really longing to hear more.

"Margaret. She knows her father wrote to you to encourage you to offer marriage to her."

He had not been expecting that. Part of him had been waiting for his landlord to implore him to delay the wedding and let Miss Hale think for six months as her aunt had or to tell him that he could no longer rent the mill, but he had not been expecting that.

So, she knew. He must have imagined her reaction to his second proposal have been one of surprise, for she had known it was going to come all along. For how long had she known? Had she known as she had taken his hand on the train and again in Oxford? Was she aware that morning in his office? The memory of how she felt pressed against his body in the cemetery after the funeral, how her hands had felt against his back as she moved to press him closer to her and how she had looked as he had been unable to resist smoothing the stray strands of her hair back filled his view. He was too old and wise to let himself believe she might one day feel for him as he so desired, was beginning to already but he had so wanted to. Now, the reality that his wish was futile came crashing down and he felt a little of the resentment he had been overcome with when he had seen her embracing her unknown man late at night. Was it too much to wish that when he had asked her why she said yes, she had just told him the truth- that she had accepted because her father wished her too- rather than because she wanted to help with the mill. He was being unfair. He knew she had not lied, just withheld part of the truth but he would not have blamed her. At least his heart would have known.

What business was it of Mr Bell. John looked at the man before him and his anger grew. It was irrational anger and misplaced, he knew, but the relaxed stance of the man before him and the knowing look in his eyes was irritating.

"Mr Bell, you seem to think that Miss Hale has told me nothing of…"

"From my conversations with her, I believe she thinks that you know that Richard also wrote to her, informing her of his wishes." Mr Bell added, cutting John off and John paused. So, she probably thought he had only proposed their partnership because her father had asked him too. Perhaps that was better, it hurt his pride less.

"I sent her the letter so that she might decide whether to pass it onto you or not."

That he had not known. John's mind had raced as the pieces of the puzzle started to come together. Miss Hale had known her father would ask him to make her an offer and had decided to pass the letter onto him anyway. Why? She could not have known he would offer her a partnership as he had done. What if he had offered her a traditional marriage- would she still have accepted him then? Governing all the self-control he had, John stopped, afraid of the direction his thoughts were heading and made himself cease these pointless wonderings. It made no difference to his feelings towards her and he had already decided that he did not need to know her motives. Self- doubt threatened to take over his being, but he pushed it down. Had she not promised him over and over that she knew what she was agreeing to and was choosing him (or rather what he could offer her) over her lover and her family and that should be enough for him?

"Of course, it is none of my business…" Mr Bell shocked him. He had quite forgotten the man was there.

"No." he said coolly. "It isn't."

"…but I believed you deserved to know. And Margaret deserves to know that you had not read it too. I believe it may change things a little."

All it would change was that she would think he had offered out of selfishness rather than loyalty to her father. How much did her godfather know? He seemed to think he knew rather a lot but she had promised that she had not disclosed the nature of their union to anyone. He felt a smug contentment in the knowledge that he and Margaret shared something that Mr Bell could not know. Still, the man was astute, perhaps he noticed more than he was told and Margaret's attempts to convince him with hand holding in Oxford were in vain.

"I think you have said all you can have to say, Mr Bell. I thank you for your time." He rose to try and politely convey his wish for the man to leave so that he might return to his work and be left alone with his thoughts. Luckily, Mr Bell obliged him and he stood to leave, taking his hand as he spoke his parting words: "You must do what you wish, of course, Thornton, but remember my advice."

The man departed quickly and did not look back but the odd chill his words had brought about lingered long after. For the rest of the day, he had pondered Mr Bell's words, unable to focus on anything other than tomorrow, Miss Hale's motives and the feel of her hands against his back. The latter, he knew, he would never stop thinking about for as long as he lived.

As he locked up the mill and returned to the house, he quickly and quietly retreated to his room. From the sitting room, he could hear the voices of his mother and Fanny, who had spent much time with his mother making plans for the wedding, still filled with the excitement of her own recent matrimony. He had left much of the organising to them, other than the flowers. Those he had chosen, contrary to his sister's advice. The image of Miss Hale's face, lit up and shining with so much happiness as she recognised the flowers on their trip to Oxford, drove him to order them without any thought for the extra cost of the florist having to acquire them from further away. She had said they reminded her of her mother and he hoped fervently that she would understand he was trying to bring her mother to the day despite her absence.

Only once he had reached his room, did he stop and look around. For the first time, it dawned on him that tomorrow night he would be sharing this space with Miss Hale, sharing a bed with Miss Hale, sharing his life with Miss Hale. John sat on the edge of the bed and sighed as he considered how everything was going to change tomorrow. He had not considered this aspect of their union. As a platonic partnership, Miss Hale really should have had her own room but how could he possibly make that happen without telling his mother of the circumstances and alerting several house staff as well? She was going to be angry with him tomorrow, he was sure of that but she would simply have to share his chamber. Well, let her be angry. Based on Mr Bell's visit he had just as much right to feel the same way. Resigned, he prepared for bed and tried to sleep alone for the last time.

…

Over the passing weeks, Margaret did not have time to really considerer Mr Thornton at all, let alone think further on their parting words that they would miss each other or her real reasons for accepting his second proposal. Her time was too entirely filled with overseeing the packing of the rest of her parent's belongings and managing the daunting task of keeping her interactions with her relations at an equilibrium. Henry had remained in Milton, but Margaret had only seen him once at the auction of her parent's belongings. Mr Bell's words in Oxford as he had asked her how she would cover the costs of moving her father's funeral to Milton had stayed with her and she had been insistent that Dixon sell as much of her parent's belongings as possible so that she might repay Mr Bell and Mr Thornton might have some money to inherit when they married. As it was, nearly everything had sold for a tidy sum and Margaret had only kept a broach and portrait of her mother and her father's tweed hat and Plato. No portrait of her father was to be found and Margaret felt an immense sadness that she would never see a likeness of her father again. The temptation to keep his hat with her always, and breathe in his familiar smell was strong but the more she sought to keep that scent as a tie to him, the less she could notice it. Even that was fading as her recollection of her details of his appearance dimmed with each day.

Aunt Shaw had been unrelenting over her decree that Margaret was not to see Mr Thornton until the wedding and this had included writing to one another. As he had promised, he had written to her a few days after the funeral but Aunt Shaw had seen to it that the letter be returned unopened, with a note explaining her decision and he had not tried to write again.

Margaret's hands trembled a little as she took the small bouquet of flowers Dixon was offering her and surveyed herself in the long mirror. Mr Thornton and his mother had sorted the flowers, just a small bouquet for her and a couple of small arrangements for the church. Those she now carried had been delivered to them that morning and Margaret had paid very little interest to them, not pausing to see what variety they had chosen. Catching sight of the blooms in the mirror she looked down quickly with a small gasp. She was clutching a collection of yellow roses; the sort Dixon had pointed out to her in Oxford; the sort she had so loved in Helstone and reminded her of her mother. For a moment she had gaped at them, baffled at how he could have acquired such roses when she had never seen any in Milton. She had never seen any such flowers in the north at all in fact. He had remembered that she liked them! He must have ordered them to be sent up from the south. Her heart fluttered a little at the realisation but she pushed the feeling away, dismissing her ridiculous over sentimentality as nervousness.

Her gown was ivory in colour and had long sleeves made of thick but intricate lace that showed just a hint of her creamy skin below, leading to a point at her hands and fastened at the cuff with two small silk covered buttons. The lace continued up across her chest and shoulders to a high neckline, cut at the base of her neck. A satin sash was fastened around her small waist and the satin skirt, overlaid with a thinner version of the same lace pattern and fastened all the way down her back by numerous tiny satin covered buttons that had taken her aunt and Edith half an hour to do up.

Picking it had been even more of a production, taking what seemed to Margaret to be an obscene length of time. She had taken Edith and Fanny to the tailors in an attempt to recruit her soon to be sister-in-law as an ally and ended up entirely outnumbered in every decision. In her mind, she had planned to order a simple gown, in a darker colour to remain respectful of her mourning but both her companions had absolutely insisted that white was all the rage and her mourning could be put on hold for one joyous day. It was when Edith mentioned that she had read in a magazine for young ladies that white was to symbolise the purity and innocence of the bride that she was persuaded. Margaret was under no doubt that rumours of her scandalous behaviour had begun circulating and the raided eyebrows of the assistant at the tailors as she chose the ivory lace confirmed her suspicions that she was about to cause more gossip. She had to admit that as she stared at the various samples of white and cream fabrics she had felt a ripple of excitement and compromised without too much cajoling by picking a darker ivory.

Veils had always seemed to her a complete waste of time. After all, they were delicate and likely to get ripped and only worn over the face for a few minutes until they were removed, yet there she found herself with a thin, lace edged veil that fell at her feet behind her and just reached her waist at the front. Fanny had complained that both were too plain but Margaret liked them. She had to admit that it was by far the nicest gown she had ever owned and probably the prettiest she had ever looked. Certainly, it was the nicest she had worn in months, since the death of her mother. Even her dark hair seemed to have decided to follow her wishes today, and was pinned perfectly in place around her head with her veil pinned into it at the back.

Margaret's stomach flipped as she looked down at the flowers once again, bright and beautiful and she took a deep breath.

"I am ready Aunt Shaw" she declared, gathering her skirt a little as she made to leave the sitting room. A carriage and Mr Bell were waiting for her outside the front door of the house in Crampton. Her aunt had tried to insist that she again stay with them in the hotel in Milton as she had been since her father's funeral but Margaret had put her foot down. She needed one more night in that house where she had last had her parents before she embarked on her new life in someone else's house- a house that included Mrs Thornton, who would undoubtedly make her life difficult. No- she needed one last night of freedom. Begrudgingly, Dixon had remained with her.

Mr Bell exclaimed appreciatively as he saw her and took her hand to help her down the two small steps to the house and guide her into the carriage. The ride was short and neither spoke much as they rode the small distance to the same church they had visited barely two weeks before, only simple pleasantries.

The ominous clouds above them blocked out much of the feeble light the sun was trying to offer up and Margaret was relieved to not linger outside the church this time. Clutching her lace skirts in one hand and the yellow roses in the other, she made her way down the cobbled path to the church before linking her arm in Mr Bell's. Together they walked into the church and Margaret's heart quickened as she heard the swell of the organ begin to echo around her.

He was standing at the bottom of the aisle, waiting for her, and Margaret needed only walk to the end of the aisle, say some simple words and it would all be done with. For a moment, she could not get her legs to move and she stayed rooted to the spot, trying desperately to remember to breathe.

As she clung tightly to Mr Bell's arm, he guided her forward, which was good as she may have remained there forever otherwise. With every step she watched him carefully, observing that his eyes swept over her from her head down to the laced edge of her skirt and back again as if judging every inch of her, before turning is back to her and waiting at the alter facing from her.

Gulping thickly, she continued to allow Mr Bell to guide her past the filled rows of people, some of whom she did not recognise and some of whom she knew had been gossiping about her days before, now here as if they were firm friends. Ann Latimer and her father's judgement was apparent in their vulture like glances and Margaret looked quickly away from them. And there at the end of the aisle were her aunt, Dixon and Edith, who was looking so inordinately pretty that Margaret felt the prick of jealousy, despite her own beautiful dress and obliging hair. Henry was beside them and looking sadly at her as she passed, seeming to avoid her gaze as much as she avoided his. Finally, on the opposite of the church was Mrs Thornton, her eyes penetrating through her skin and into her very soul. Her look was unforgiving and Margaret had to breathe deeply to resist turning on her heel and running away from all of them.

Finally, as they reached the front of the church, the music ended, and Mr Bell removed her arm from his to place it in Mr Thornton's, who guided her to sit beside him on the first pew. To her dismay and annoyance, he seemed to be avoiding looking at her again, as if the very sight of her was abhorrent to him which Margaret felt, as though it was the cold stab of rejection.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here…" the priest began addressing the congregation.

She tried not to mind and stay focussed forward on whatever the priest was saying but she did not hear a word. Through the lace of her dress, she could sense the hundreds of pairs of eyes boring into her back and she could not stand it combined with his silence and hostility. His posture beside her was rigid and his face stony, making Margaret start to panic. This was not how she had imagined it would be. Surely his behaviour implied a change of heart, or rather mind, on his part? He had promised her that he knew what he was doing and would not waver but his reaction was not what she had expected. She felt as fool for wanting him to like her dress and appear at least a little happy. Oh, how could she condemn him to fulfil a promise he would regret? What would all these people say if they didn't marry? She would be ruined but she would rather that than have him marry her if he had changed his mind. It was inappropriate to whisper over the priest in church, her father had been very firm about that, but under the circumstances, how could she not check?

"Mr Thornton, if you've changed your mind…" She tried to whisper as quietly as she could without making it apparent to anyone sat behind that she was talking.

"I have not" he snapped back in a more forceful whisper and Margaret regretted asking, suddenly feeling like she was going to cry. If not, then why was he acting as though he could not stand to be near her? Fine. If he would not talk to her, then she would not talk to him. Stubbornly, she shifted a little away from him, wanting to move to the end of the aisle, as far away as she could reasonably get but stopping as she realised the foolishness and impracticality of that desire.

"Have you?" he whispered in a softer voice, his face contorting as though it caused him physical pain to ask. Margaret shook her head ever so slightly, assured by his responding nod that he had understood her. Again, she tried to focus on the priest. For a second she was successful until he moved just a little, closing the gap between them that she had just created. In his lap, he was folding and unfolding his hands over and over agitatedly and Margaret watched transfixed.

"Are you nervous?" she asked, this time shifting her slightly moist eyes to look at him as she finally understood a reason for his cold demeanour.

"No." He replied in a manner she suspected was supposed to convey confidence, but Margaret was not fooled. She could feel the uneven rise and fall of his shoulders as his arm was pressed up against hers, and see the heightened colour in his cheeks that did not appear to stem from embarrassment this time. Perhaps that was all it was- he was as nervous as she.

For her part, Margaret's nerves were on edge and every few seconds she was having to remind herself to keep breathing. Every fibre of her being was wishing her to run, away from Mr Thornton's icy countenance, away from the situation and away from the judgemental eyes of those who had unfairly judged her and now gathered here to view the spectacle. Still, Mr Thornton was here and he was marrying her and offering her his friendship, despite his coldness and disapproval of her actions and that spoke louder than the words he was refusing to say.

"Will you hold my hand?" She whispered, leaning a little closer to his ear, hoping no-one would hear her child-like plea. It was barely audible to herself and an absolute miracle that he heard it at all, but sure enough his hand moved cautiously to take her own into it, his fingers linking through hers as they had done before, resting gently against the lace of her dress covering her thighs. It surprised her to find that his hand was shaking more than hers was and she gripped it tighter, hoping to still it a little. Finally, he looked at her then, his shaking hand seemed to still as did her own. The feeling of reassurance that simple connection between them brought was astounding and suddenly she didn't care about the judgement of those sat behind her. They didn't matter. Her mother and father were the only people whose opinions she would have cared about and they would have been proud of her, she was sure of it.

Finally, the priest finished talking and she and Mr Thornton rose to repeat their vows. Margaret could tell that he too was less nervous now, but his brow was still creased as if troubled and she wished to have the ceremony over with so that they might discuss whatever his problem was.

As the priest finished his final words and Mr Thornton carefully pulled back her veil and bent to chastely kissed her cheek, Margaret shivered at the contact. Then it was over and the pair exited the church. Due to Margaret's grieving, there was to be a very small gathering at the Thornton household where only her family and his would be present along with Mr Bell. A carriage waited for them outside and Margaret was heading towards it when Edith accosted her, Henry standing at her side.

"Margaret, you look every inch the blushing bride!" she proclaimed happily, throwing her arms around her cousin. "Do you not think she looks beautiful, Mr Thornton?"

"I think she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen or ever will, Mrs Lennox" he replied, seriously, his brown still creased, seemingly in annoyance and Margaret blushed prettily at the compliment anyway.

"As you walked down the aisle you could tell from a mile away how much you are in love with him, Margaret! I am so happy for you both!"

How funny that Edith should think Margaret's look was one of love. How like Edith to confuse respect for something so entirely different! Margaret could not help but giggle before remembering Mr Thornton had heard that too and quickly, leading him to the waiting carriage, biding Edith farewell until later as she did so and awkwardly thanking Henry for coming.

Beside the carriage, they were alone and she could finally talk to him properly.

"Why are you acting like I have done something wrong, Mr Thornton?" she questioned, curiously. He did not respond at first, simply offering his hand to help her into the carriage and gathering her trailing veil and skirt. As soon as he had helped her into the carriage and taken his place opposite her, he spoke.

"Why did you agree to marry me?" It was blunt and caught Margaret off guard.

Confused, she replied, "I told you on the train to Oxford."

"No, you didn't, Miss Hale," he replied bluntly. It was a statement of fact and Margaret felt her heckles rise in retaliation.

"Are you suggesting I lied?" Her voice had become cold and unfeeling, expressing her displeasure.

"No, I am suggesting you told me some of your reasons but not all. I am suggesting your father writing to you before his death has something to do with it."

Margaret's blood ran cold. So, he did know. That was why he had been so distant with her. Well, how could he blame her for not mentioning it? She had intended to but she did not want to seem as though she were seeking for him to offer to her again. After all, he had never mentioned anything about it either and therefore was just as bad as she!

"My father told me he had written you a letter and a little of what it contained. I passed on the letter because, if I had not, I would have been unjustly silencing my father. Since you, apparently, were the last person he thought to write to, he must have felt strongly about whatever he said. I did not read it to know for sure. You cannot blame me as you did not mention it to me either."

The last sentence was dripping with malice she did not know she felt and Margaret cringed a little, ashamed of how much she begrudged her father's final actions.

"Did you know I would offer again?" he demanded, forcefully.

"Yes, I knew." She replied with equal force.

"And I suppose it was convenient that I offered such an agreeable arrangement instead of the proposal you were expecting."

What was the use in lying? He seemed to be intent on twisting her reasons into something ugly anyway so what did it matter?

"Yes, it was."

Silence shifted through the carriage and an awkward atmosphere pervaded the air as they studied each other intently.

"So, your main reason for accepting my offer was to make your father happy?" He had adopted the tone of voice he used with his disobedient workers, cold and superior and Margaret did not reply, silently seething at the accusatory nature.

"If so, I will not judge you for that, but I think I made my wish for us to speak the truth plain to you."

"Do you not know me at all?" She questioned, raising her voice in her frustration and he raised his eyebrows at her a little.

"Despite my love for my father and my wishes to make him happy, I would not have even considered marrying you purely for his sake. I have told you some of my reasons already but since you seem adamant that you must know, I would have said yes, regardless of what my father may have disclosed of his hopes, and regardless of what he may have asked of you in that wretched letter."

Finally, he knew what she had known since the night she had left his house with her aunt and Edith. In all honesty she had probably known it since the moment she made the decision to visit his office and deliver the letter.

"You would have agreed to a marriage with me and all that comes with that if I had asked with no mention of such an agreement?" His words were laced with disbelief and his eyebrows raised as if talking to a child who had been caught lying. Well, she would not let him intimidate her.

"Yes."

"Why?"

How was she to answer that? Was she to admit what she could not understand? Was she to admit that despite owing him nothing and disagreeing with him on so many matters, she so desperately craved his approval, that his hatred following her lie for Fred was enough to show her that? Was she to admit that for some incomprehensible reason she trusted him more than any other living person currently in England and wanted to stay with him- someone who challenged her rather than patronising her?

"I would have said yes because your offer of friendship would have been implied anyway. You may not have voiced the words but the same promise would have been there, unspoken."

It was the most frankly they had ever spoken to each other- probably the most frankly she had spoken to anyone, more so even than the day of the riots when she had commanded him to face the men-and despite the sharp uncensored edge in both their responses there was something oddly satisfying about saying what she truly meant for once. It was liberating to be too annoyed to care about the consequences. They were married and it was too late to undo it.

"Yes, I would not have forced myself on you, if that is what you mean." The look he gave her was penetrating and relentless and lacking the flush of embarrassment that crept to her own cheeks at his implied meaning.

Of course, she had been relieved when he has spoken of a partnership, without all the rights and promises of marriage but she hadn't needed to hear it. He would not have forced her into anything anyway, because of who he was. That was what she had meant when she had stated that Henry would not have offered. Henry would have expected something back, regardless of whether she was willing to give it. She and Mr Thornton may have clashed over many things and he may have hated her but he would always respect her opinions and her feelings.

Instead of replying to his half-question, Margaret took a deep breath and finally did what she should have done weeks ago.

"At the station that night, you saw me with a man and you know that I lied for him."

His expression was overcome with confusion at the change of topic, but he did not interrupt.

"You thought he was my lover, your mother thought that too- probably wanted to believe that, but he was not. The man you saw me with is my brother."

Mr Thornton jerked his head as if he had been slapped and his eyes snapped to meet hers, searching into her very soul to decipher whether she was speaking the truth.

"He is your brother?" Mr Thornton repeated, blinking repeatedly as if trying to decipher whether she'd gone mad.

"Yes- my brother- Fred."

"But your father- your mother- they never mentioned him once…" His voice was quiet now and his speech broken as his obvious disbelief showed through.

"He is in trouble with the law for a mutiny that happened years ago, whilst he was serving under the direction of a tyrannical captain. If it was known he was here he would have been arrested and tried for treason."

His body slumped back against the seat of the carriage and he rubbed his hand against his eyes repeating once more, "he is your brother."

"Yes. I am sorry I could not tell you but I needed to know he had returned to Spain safely- that is where he is living. No-one could know he was here, not even the police and so I lied to save him. I couldn't tell a soul what had happened, not even you. Especially not you as a magistrate, I couldn't ask you to keep his secret too when it might hurt your reputation also…"

"I am sorry, Miss Hale, I had no idea." Suddenly, Mr Thornton's demeanour had entirely changed, and he looked ashamed of himself.

"I really did want to tell you," She added.

Silence settled over the carriage again and for a moment no sound could be heard other than the wheels turning outside of the cobbled roads and the horse hooves tapping.

"Did my father ask you to make me an offer such as you have laid out or was that of your choice completely? Why would you do it when there is so little in it for you?" She asked, sure that he had not been entirely truthful in the train carriage. "Last time, you did not answer me at all, just proclaimed that I already know but I do not!"

"That is because you will not like the answer." It was not an accusation this time, just a declaration.

"Can I not decide that?"

He sighed and seemed to be facing some internal struggle as he regarded her wearily.

"Margaret, I did not have time to read the letter from your father that day. I read it the night we stayed in the hotel in Oxford."

He did not wait for her response, quickly opening the carriage door and exiting without a backwards glance. Margaret remained rooted to the spot, her mind turning over. What did his answer have to do with the question? Something in her brain shifted and the significance hit her. He had proposed before reading the letter. So, his offer could not have been influenced by her father's letter at all! Her heartbeat quickened at that thought and she suddenly felt her annoyance dissipate as abruptly as the conversation had ended and be replaced with an entirely different emotion.

Just outside the carriage he stood waiting, his hand held out to help her step down and she took it, relief crossing his face as she did so, the tension from earlier eradicated from his stance.

She wanted to press him further, to find out more of how his mind worked, but she would not press him now.

As they made their way across the mill yard, both she and Mr Thornton stopped as they heard the threatening roll of thunder in the distance. Both raised their eyes to the dark and foreboding heavens just as the first drops of rain began to fall onto their clothing. Margaret closed her eyes for a moment as she let the rain fall onto her upturned face. That silly conversation with Henry in her cousin's drawing room drifted again into her recollection. She had spoken of walking to church to a wedding on a sunny day in Helstone, yet she had been greeted with a carriage ride to a church in Milton in the rain! Part of her was glad; it was not at all what she had spoken of but much more what she wanted. As the rain gained in ferocity, a smile broke across her face and she laughed, raising her hands up to feel the rain, cleansing away all the ill feeling she had released in the carriage.

"What is amusing, Miss Hale?" Mr Thornton asked, smiling with her, as she twirled once in the rain.

"I am just happy." She answered honestly, smiling up at him. "Our conversation seems to have displeased the weather, Mr Thornton!" she declared over the sound of the rain falling onto the ground.

"Do you usually find the disapproval of others amusing?" He asked teasingly.

"Not your disapproval." She replied seriously, her smile dimming just a little and she averted them to her bouquet of yellow roses.

"Do you like them?" he asked her, changing the subject.

"I don't think I have ever loved anything someone has given me more." She decreed as she ran a finger along the silky-smooth petal of one of the roses.

"I hope one day you will." He whispered and Margaret looked to him intently, unsure what he meant. As he had done on the steps of his house, he raised a hand to her face and ever so softly wiped a rain drop from her cheek that had settled there, his hand lingering on her cheek and she tilted her head just a little to lean into his touch.

"You are so beautiful." He leaned forward and whispered into her ear as his other hand came to rest on the lace of her sleeve, his thumb caressing the skin beneath through the patterned material, and Margaret's breath caught in her throat and the heat it created at the point of contact.

A crash of thunder rippled above them and he jumped back, dropping his hands abruptly to his side. The trickle of rain, promptly turned to a down pour, each droplet hammering onto the cobbles and leaping off sporadically.

He cleared his throat, "Come, Miss Hale. You must pretend to be in love with me for the next few hours for the benefit of our families, to make up for my foul mood earlier."

She nodded mutely and side by side, they walked across the remainder of the mill yard and into the house, as she tried not to dwell on the implications of his final admission and the feel of his hand on her arm and face and instead focus on putting on a show for her aunt and Edith.

…


	9. Chapter 9

Hello readers,

Thank you for your reviews of the last chapter. I am so sorry there has been such a long wait this time- a lot has been going on recently. Thank you also to those who messaged me or reviewed to ask if I was ok. I have rubbish excuses. First, I became unusually invested in the World Cup and then I went away on a school trip for a week and was too busy rock climbing to write! I admit I enjoyed it far more than is really acceptable for someone in their mid-twenties. I'm back now and it is summer so I should be more regular with posting! Wow- this chapter is nearly 10,000 words again. I am sorry! I just feel like these scenes are really important for the story and when I tried to cut parts I just ended up making them longer.

I hope you enjoy. As ever, please do review.

Elle X.

…

John gazed at his wife across the sitting room as she chatted and giggled happily with her cousin. The house was full, of her family members, Mr Bell, Fanny and Watson and a few of the other mill owners and their wives, who his mother had suggested it would be wise to invite. Margaret would have wanted to invite Nicholas and Mary and probably all the workers she seemed to sympathise so with, but he had been forced to draw the line. He was thankful she had not yet mentioned their absence and had no intention of bringing it up unless she did. As it was, John couldn't remember a time he had ever seen her look so care free, certainly not since her mother had become ill.

Outside, the down pour from earlier had not calmed and the sky was dark and grey, but inside the lights were bright and warm, and Margaret's eyes glistened as they reflected them. Hungrily, his own swept over the cream of her neck and down to the glimpse of skin that showed through the thick lace pattern of her dress. They lingered transfixed on the gleam of a thin silver bracelet, just visible through the lace covering at her wrist as she still clutched the bunch of yellow roses tightly in her small hand, having refused her aunt's offer to place them safely upstairs. With the other hand, she sat unconsciously stroking the soft petals of one rose and he watched each slight movement transfixed.

He was staring, he knew. At the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware that he was causing much good-natured tittering from her aunt, Dixon and Mr Bell who were watching not so inconspicuously from the corner and earning a contrasting icy glare from Henry Lennox. Earlier, he had spotted his mother's worried gaze boring into his side as she observed the direction of his attentions, but he didn't care about any of them. If he was being obvious, then so be it. Acting as though he was in love with her would not require any effort on his part. Acting as though he wasn't required so much more.

Since their conversation in the carriage, the first almost completely truthful one they had engaged in, he had been unable to stop thinking about all she had said. The man at the station had been her brother! Yet, still the memory of how his insides had twisted uncomfortably as she embraced the unknown figure lingered. Some part of him refused to accept the truth and unrelentingly warned him that she may still be deceiving him- that the man may yet really be her lover- but he knew she had finally told him the truth. Knowing who the man at the station was, realising that he was not the lover he had feared and assumed him to be, had not had the effect he hoped. He had released her from that aspect of the agreement, wrongly thinking he could live his life not knowing and yet neither knowing nor living in ignorance could quell the unsettled feeling in his stomach.

As he had gazed upon her at the end of the aisle in the church, he had been filled with nerves that he had not experienced before. The fear that she would turn around and walk away from him without looking back was completely overwhelming, yet so was the thought of her going through with it purely because she believed her father to wished it. Until Mr Bell had informed him of her knowledge of the letter, he had thought she had accepted because she respected him and wanted to help the workers, but since yesterday's revelations, he had feared she had only done it to please her absent father and that had hurt almost as much as when she refused him the first time. It was not hard to believe she would place Mr Hale's wants above her own. Yet now he knew all. She would have married him anyway! He did not understand what had changed, but he would be eternally grateful it had.

Still, even after her openness about that night at the station, instead of feeling a sense of closure, acceptance that she loved another but wished for his friendship, he felt an unquenchable sense of yearning pulling at his heart and knew without a shadow of a doubt that he wanted her more than ever. Despite his promise, he would spend his life yearning for her to really be his. He would lie next to her each night and eat breakfast with her every morning and talk with her each day and work with her at the mill if she wanted, and he would always yearn for more but he would keep his promise and never voice that wish or ask for her love in return.

Of course, he had been a coward again, unable or more truthfully, unwilling to admit the real reason he had proposed with no expectation of any of the privileges of marriage in return- unable or unwilling to admit he was in love with her still, so completely and utterly in love with her and always would be.

She was a good actress, he'd not deny her that. Since they had entered the house and the guests had begun arriving, she had been nothing but charm itself, thanking everyone for coming profusely and (on request) sharing anecdotes about when they met that he had almost started to believe himself. With her arm linked through his, she had stood with him- the pair of them together- surrounded by the small collection of guests, who asked about how they had grown in affection and she had told a tale-his tale but not hers. Instead of lingering on the differences in their opinions as they had clashed in her father's study, she instead omitted those moments from her account, and spoke only of the moments in which they had started to bond, the moments that had given him false hope in changing nature of their relationship in the first place. Of course, she had not lied about any of it, rather presented events in the best light and missed out others (for which he was grateful) and it had left her captive listeners giggling in amusement and smiling fondly at them both. Even he had listened in rapture as she spoke of her respect for him growing, and as she ended her speech she turned to look at him with such happiness in her face that he had quite forgotten in that moment they it was all for the benefit of others and not representative of their relationship at all.

Her good mood had lasted and he knew her well enough to be assured that their conversation had changed things between them for the better. She would not pretend to be happy for so long purely to please her family, she must indeed feel happier than she had since so much sadness infiltrated her life and that gave him hope.

Edith Lennox caught him staring at his bride and excused herself from Margaret, who happily obliged and went to talk to Mr Bell and her aunt. She crossed the room and took the seat beside him.

"Don't the decorations look lovely. Your mother really has done a most wonderful job." She gestured to various flowers, dotted around the room and he nodded appreciatively as he noticed the yellow roses, integrated with the more traditional pink blooms, hanging around the room.

"She will be pleased to hear your praise." He looked to his mother who was speaking to Martha about the arrangements for the rest of the evening. She may not have been the greatest supporter of his choice of bride but you would not have suspected it today. As ever, she hid her feelings in front of others, loyal to her family first and foremost, only allowing herself the occasional worried glance between him and her new daughter-in-law.

"Thank you for helping Margaret with the wedding preparations, Mrs Lennox. Your assistance has been invaluable to her." He commented sincerely to Edith, who smiled prettily in response.

"Oh, it has been my pleasure, Mr Thornton!" She glowed, watching Margaret closely as she chatted to Fanny and Watson and John followed the subject of her gaze with equal interest. Fanny must have been boasting about something Watson had done as the man puffed with pride and Margaret nodded approvingly, at Fanny's encouragement. Wisps of hair had escaped from her pinned curls and hung prettily around her face and down her back and he had to tear his attention away from the sight and back to focus on her cousin.

"The dress was the hardest thing to choose, of course. She was so desperate for you to like it."

Well if that was her aim then she had succeeded. He had meant it when he said she would look lovely in anything but the ivory lace against her brown hair and sapphire blue eyes was particularly striking.

"She was?" He asked trying to temper his curiosity.

"Oh yes, she was very keen to hear Fanny's guidance to make sure you would approve of her choice."

As if she could sense she was being spoken about, Margaret glanced over at the pair and her eyes settled on his face, meeting his stare confidently and smiling at him, such a beautiful smile that reached her sparkling eyes and took his breath away. To see her smile like that was a rare but welcome thing. It was reminiscent of the way she had smiled at him on the night of the annual Thornton party so long ago and he knew that if she only looked at him like that once a week, he would not wish for more. He felt himself smile in response and for a moment, happiness threatened to overwhelm him, but as she turned away a prickle of sadness returned and reality crept back in.

"I'm sure you will understand that I cannot quite forgive you fully for taking my cousin away from me and making her stay in this dirty place…" Edith carried on. His pride caused him to feel a little insulted by that damning assessment of his home, but she continued, oblivious to any insensitivity on her part, "but since she is so obviously completely in love with you, I will do my best not to resent you, Mr Thornton." Her tone was happy and teasing and John could not help but like her despite her unfair judgement. Truly, Margaret was doing a good enough job of acting so in love with him that she had thoroughly convinced her cousin.

"I am sure she looks at many others like that, Mrs Lennox." He replied in a manner he hoped came across as flippant rather than doubting and self-deprecating as he knew it was. Clearly, at least one other man had thought she had looked at him like that and had fallen foul of the same rejection as himself.

Edith shook her head sadly at him. "I had so hoped she would marry Henry, you know…" she trailed off, looking wistfully at the man in question, and John stiffened a little at the mention of Henry's name voiced aloud, whose eyes continually followed Margaret like a hawk, stalking its prey.

"…but I see now that he would not have made her happy. She has never looked at him in the way she looks at you. I've never seen her look at anyone in the way she looks at you. I thought that on the night we came for dinner."

If only her cousin knew the truth. Absurdly and without warning, he wanted to stop the pretence and just tell everyone the nature of their marriage- to forget about their opinions and just admit to everything, as if doing so would have some sort of cleansing power and all would be well. As he gazed as Margaret he knew he could not do that to her and he pushed the urge down.

He continued to study his bride as she happily talked with Fanny and Watson, the yellow roses still clutched tightly to her chest. To John's annoyance, Henry Lennox crossed the room purposefully, passing him and Edith, without a backwards glance and grabbed Margaret's arm, dragging her away from her audience to the corner of the room where they would not be overheard. Perhaps his eyes were deceiving him, by displaying what he wished to see, but he thought the shadow of annoyance crossed Margaret's brow as the other man led her.

What one earth could he have to talk to her about alone?

They stood together conspiting for a moment in hushed voices, leaning a little into one another as the conversation caught her attention and no sign of annoyance remained. Lennox's hand still lingered on her elbow and John could feel jealousy rear up inside him at their intimacy, despite her cousin's miss-placed confidence in her love for him rather than 'Henry' and her own assurance of her disinterest in the man. John knew she had refused Lennox and chosen him and by all accounts there had been reason enough in the other man's favour, and that comforted him, but how could he be pleased to see another man so shamelessly seek time alone with her?

"Do you play the piano, Mrs Lennox?" he asked suddenly, surprised at how little thought he had given his response to Henry' Lennox's proximity to his wife.

"Yes. Oh, you must dance with Margaret. Shall I play a waltz?" Edith rose, excitedly.

He strode away from her before she could finish her offer and walked across the room to Margaret, who turned her smile towards him again at his approach.

"Dance with me." He commanded her holding his hand out in invitation and waited as she sceptically looked first at his outstretched hand and then back to his face as if unsure whether he was joking, an incredulous smile playing at the corner of her mouth. Still, he waited, unwavering. He half expected her to refuse and walk away but she did not, finally nodding her assent. Slowly, she took his offered hand and allowed him to lead her into the centre of the room before spinning her in towards him.

"Oh yes, Mr Thornton, you must dance with your bride!" exclaimed Mrs Shaw happily, clapping her hands and Margaret giggled at her aunt's excitement. The intensity of Henry Lennox's frown threatened to burn through the clothes on his back but John did not flinch, clutching his wife's hand tighter.

Suddenly, John realised he was _actually_ going to have to dance with her. He had always felt awkward dancing and avoided doing so at all costs, but he had wanted her away from Henry and his jealous mind had acted before he had considered the implications. His mind raced as he tried to remember the last time he had danced and how he had done it.

As if she sensed his predicament, Margaret took one hand in her own and, prompted, he placed the other on her waist, drawing her closer to him than was strictly necessary (he was not proud of his reasons for doing so or the satisfaction he felt at Lennox's deep frown, but after all he was only human). Sharply, she inhaled and seemed to be holding her breath as if waiting for him to start the dance before exhaling.

Edith began to play the piano and they started to move. Every eye in the room was trained on them and he felt himself start to sweat, cringing a little at the scrutiny. He was immensely relieved when Mr Bell offered to dance with his mother, who accepted with a pointed look at him. Later, knew he must remember to thank her- she would be hating to dance in public and he knew she had purely accepted for his benefit so that less attention would be focussed on he and his companion. Watson and Fanny also joined in and he relaxed.

John had not had the opportunity to dance frequently, but had been made to dance with Fanny to had insisted that he allow her to practice. The yearly Thornton party held by him and his mother sometimes included dancing for those who wished to and Fanny would not have forgiven him if he had refused to dance with her. He was no dancer but Fanny had begrudgingly admitted he was better than Watson, and he easily worked through the steps he remembered. Now at ease, John began to lead his partner and she relaxed a little also, allowing him to set the pace and direction of their movements.

"I did not know you liked to dance, Mr Thornton!" Margaret declared. Her curiosity was evident, and her gaze searching, as if she was trying to figure him out.

"Do you intend to call me Mr Thornton for the entirety of our marriage, Margaret?" He asked, amused. His mother had pointed out to them both that they could now call each other by their Christian names and he had strived to since, but Margaret had continued to call him Mr Thornton nonetheless.

She stilled for a moment. "No…I suppose I must call you, John now."

"I shan't make you call me anything, but it may appear a little odd for two married people to continue to call each other by their surnames, even in private."

She nodded but did not comment, still looking at him in the same inquisitive manner as they twirled in time to the music.

"I don't like to dance. Besides, I don't usually have time to dance Margaret." He replied.

"Edith and I used to always attend dances together in London. Edith constantly had a string of young gentlemen waiting to dance with her." She looked wistfully towards her cousin as the memory, momentarily stole her from him.

"I expect you had an equally long line of young men waiting for you…"

She shrugged a little at that, looking sheepish and John took it to be an affirmation.

For a moment, they danced and he caught sight of Lennox sitting on one of his mother's chairs at the side of the room, eyes still trained on Margaret.

"Was one of those men Henry?" He asked, annoyed at how persistent said man was, unrelenting in his observation of Margaret.

"I have often danced with Henry, yes. His family holds a gathering three times a year."

He had feared as much but was a little disappointed in the response regardless.

"If I'm honest, I have never liked dancing much."

The comment was loaded and her tone implied she meant something else entirely, reassuring him and his jealousy dimmed a little.

He looked towards Henry Lennox who was still scowling towards them.

"I fear, he doesn't like me very much."

Margaret's eyes searched Lennox out and she sighed at his expression of blatant hatred.

"No. I suspect not. He warned me not to tell you about Fred just now, you know."

John felt his hand clench tighter onto her waist at the sheer audacity of the man and his eyes narrowed.

"Why?" It came out harsh and seeping with anger as his mind seethed.

"He fears I should not trust you and thought he was doing the right thing by warning me."

He was surprised by her willingness to tell him of their conversation but determined to make the most of it.

"How does he know about your brother?" He interrogated sharply.

"He is a lawyer. I contacted him by letter when Fred was over here before mother's death, to see if there was anything he could do to help clear Fred's name. There was not."

He nodded. That made sense and he could not begrudge her that but he did not like it. If there was nothing the lawyer could do, the situation must indeed be seen in the eyes of the law as a mutiny and extremely dangerous for her brother to be seen in England. There must be some way he could help in his position as a magistrate but he was at a loss as he pondered what he could do.

"And what did you tell him? In response to his warning, I mean."

"I told him, I wouldn't have married you if I wasn't going to tell you everything."

His annoyance dissipated at her words and his eyes sought for her own to see the truth of her words reflected there. The deep blue threatened to drown him in their depths and for a moment he forgot to breathe as he found himself leaning towards her and kissing her chastely on the cheek as he had done at the wedding. Margaret's mouth opened a little in surprise and she brought the hand that had been resting on her shoulder to her cheek as if the ghost of his touch still lingered there and he froze in fear of her distain. He mentally kicked himself for ruining the easy nature that was developing between them and waited for her rebuke.

"I thought you said you couldn't dance?" She giggled, her happiness from earlier returning as if his mistake had never happened and the hand returned to its previous position, all trace of his action eradicated.

John remembered to draw breath once more and as he looked over at Henry Lennox in relief, he no longer seemed like a threat. It was unhealthy to obsess over the man any longer. He must trust Margaret and as she had been transparent with him, there was no reason to doubt her.

"I said I do not like to dance, not that I don't know how." He replied, trying to adopt the teasing tone she had happily reciprocated earlier.

"You should dance with me often." She stated as if it was an indisputable fact.

"You do not like to dance." He replied with equal confidence, his brow furrowed at her contradictory words.

"You shall have to change my mind."

He scoffed slightly: "I am not foolish enough to believe I could change your mind if you don't want me to change it, Margaret."

"Perhaps I do want you to."

The waltz ended and they stopped dancing abruptly. Those around them clapped Edith's playing enthusiastically and John stared at her for a moment, trying to decipher whether she was mocking him or not. The happiness she had been exhibiting seemed to falter a little under his scrutiny, and she raised her chin defiantly as she gulped thickly, but her gaze remained unflinching.

The thought of dancing with her again- alone- made his heartbeat thud louder in his ears as, with surprise, he realised she was serious. He nodded, breaking their eye contact and seizing on the opportunity to escape the heavy atmosphere pervading the air when he was approached by his mother and Mr Bell.

…

Margaret was exhausted but (if she was entirely honest with herself) disappointed the evening had ended. As much as she had scoffed at the concept of weddings, she had to admit she had enjoyed knowing people were there to see her and the whole thing had provided a welcome break from the sadness that had recently infiltrated her life. Telling Mr Thornton about Fred had lifted a weight off her shoulders and she felt light and carefree as a result. Now he knew everything, and if he still hated her as she feared he did deep down, it was entirely her own fault and probably deserved, rather than being based on unfairly surmised moral indiscretions.

Henry had warned her to be wary of her husband, advising her to take particular caution about revealing Fred's existence, but he did not know the man she had married like she did. Thanking him for his advice, she had quickly dismissed it as soon as her husband had stolen her away.

Dancing was not her favourite activity. Standing so close to someone you did not know well, seemed to her a pointless and awkward activity and when young men had asked her to dance, she had often only accepted out of duty to her cousin, in an attempt to appear interested in something Edith liked so much. Dancing with Mr Thornton- John- her husband- was entirely different. It helped of course that he was a good dancer, and, unlike Henry and countless others, had not once stepped on her toes once or required her to lead. There was something friendly about it, as if they had strengthened the tentative bond they had started to build together. She had never wanted dancing before as other girls so often did, but doing so with this man was different. Something about it drew her in and she craved it. Then he had kissed her cheek and she had waited for that glass string between them to shatter but it had not. In that split second, she had realised it would only shatter if they were to let it and she would not. Instead she brushed it off, after all, if they were to keep others believing in their love for one another, they would have to show some affection and a kiss on the cheek was hardly scandalous. Her godfather kissed her cheek often, had done so as he was leaving in fact, as had Watson.

The guests had left not long after their dance and Margaret's happiness had dimed only a little as she remembered the reality of her situation. Alone in a new house- her new home- were nothing of her parents existed, yet she would not let it ruin the magic of the afternoon. She had hugged her cousin longer than necessary since she would be seeing her tomorrow before she and Aunt Shaw departed. As she pulled away Edith had whispered: "Good luck. If you don't fight it, it won't hurt so much…" and Margaret had stared at her baffled for a moment before understanding had washed over her and her blood had run a little colder at the realisation of what her cousin assumed she and John would be doing tonight. If she wasn't sure before, she was sure now that she had made the right decision in marrying him. Another man would have expected her to do _that_ or rather let him do that, but he would not. If she had married another man she would be wracked with nerves, but instead she was merely curious about what her life would be like and who her husband really was. She had thanked Edith anyway, and quickly stepped away. There had been much debate on whether Dixon would stay with her in the Thornton house hold, but finally it was decided that she would return to London with Aunt Shaw and Margaret watched her leave, still annoyed with Dixon for her behaviour since her father's death but saddened nonetheless by her parting.

Yet, instead of being wracked with nerves, she meant it when she returned his mother's "good night" and thanked her for everything. John had thanked her and kissed her and with her parting words for him to remember her advice, he had blushed scarlet and hurried upstairs. Keenly, she observed the details of the house as he led the way upstairs and across a large hallway to the back of the house and through the last door there. Then the door was closed behind them and the world shut out, leaving just she and John alone.

With interest, she looked around his bedroom, taking in the dark sophistication of it all. It was adorned with dark wood and navy coloured papers on the wall. A fire already roared in the grate, casting shadows against the walls and providing a heat that had been missing at Crampton. The drapes hanging at the double windows were thick and plush but not extravagant and Margaret reflected that this was exactly the type of bed chamber she could have imagined him having. Her eyes settled on the large oak desk in the corner and focussed on the familiar small white rectangle resting there, her father's neat print, decorating the surface. For a moment, she simply, stared at it, unable to look away but not wanting to move any closer for fear of being burned by its contents.

"You can read it."

He was stood behind her against the closed door, but he was close and his voice passed by her ear.

She shook her head determinedly.

"No. Whatever he has said, it is between you and him."

Forcing herself to look away, she continued her exploration. As her roaming eyes centred on the item in the centre of the room, she stilled and stared. A large bed of dark wood was covered in navy bed clothes and turned down ready for its occupants. Margaret froze as the daunting realisation that from now on she would be expected to share that bed with the man before her settled unpleasantly in her stomach. Of course, she knew he would not make her fulfil any wifely duties, but sleeping in the same bed with a man was still an incredibly daunting prospect.

"I could not ask for a separate room for you without telling my mother about…" he trailed off, seemingly having anticipated the direction of her thoughts, but it did not matter. She knew what he meant and understood. Despite her misgivings, she would simply have to get used to this new arrangement. That was much preferable to informing Mrs Thornton she would be sleeping separately to the woman's darling son. Naively, she had not realised this would be a problem as her parents had kept their own rooms for as long as she had lived with them, though now she realised they could not always have chosen to stay in them.

Determinedly, she crossed the room to sit tentatively on the edge of the bed, pleasantly surprised by how soft it was. He was still stood by the door, watching her as if unsure what to do with himself and for the first time she realised how odd he must be finding this change in situation too- to find his personal space so invaded by another. Smiling in a way she hoped was encouraging she patted the space next to her on the bed and he tentatively crossed the room to join her, raking a hand through his hair as he did so.

Trying to relax, Margaret laid back onto the softness of his bed, releasing her roses from her grasp for the first time and delicately placing them over the pillow, beside something soft and folded, her legs still draped over the side and her feet touching the floor as she studied the ceiling, intricately patterned by the shadows cast by the fire.

"I don't know what we are supposed to do now." He admitted quietly as if worried someone would overhear, looking at his hands in his lap rather than her.

The expression on his face was so serious that Margaret could not help but nervously laugh at the situation. After being so cruelly judged for being seen with two men alone, now she was expected to be alone with one every night. At the thought, her nerves turned into a more confident giggle as he frowned at her, clearly offended. Turning from her he stood to leave and she quickly sat to grab his hand and bring him back down with her. Luckily, he let her, so that they were lying side by side, his position mirroring hers.

"I am sorry. I was not laughing at you- rather at the situation."

For a moment, she let the silence settle over them, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest out of the corner of her eye.

"I do not know what to do either." She admitted, hoping to reassure him, smiling as another giggle threatened to escape. For a moment he was silent, but as he turned his head to look at her, he smiled softly too and held her look. Those blue eyes were darker in this half-light provided by the flickering flames, almost a grey colour with flecks of blue and she allowed herself to study them fascinated for a moment, the crackle of the fire and their breathing the only sound.

"Will you dance with me?" He asked suddenly, sitting up.

"Now?" She replied, confused, sitting up also and leaning on her straightened arms behind her.

"Yes." He stood, offering her his hand like he had earlier that evening.

She accepted gingerly. She supposed since neither of them knew what they were supposed to do now they were married and expected to share a bed, dancing seemed as good an activity as any. Possessively, his hand returned to her waist and hers to his shoulder and their other hands linked. Although, she could not really feel it through the stiffness of her corset, in this more intimate setting Margaret blushed a little at his touch against her side. Slightly, roughly he pulled her into him and she deeply breathed in the smell of soup and sandalwood, letting the now familiar scent infiltrate her senses. Despite the lack of musical accompaniment, he led her in the same waltz, twirling her around the space in the room, carefully navigating her around the furniture and Margaret found dancing alone was just as fun as doing so in a room with other people. The awkwardness seemed to dissipate and they both laughed as they navigated a particularly annoying chest at the end of his bed. In the firelight it was harder and Margaret sniggered as they struggled to keep to rhythm, counting the imaginary beats as they went.

Forgetting about the other people in the house they burst into laughter, when they nearly toppled over, whilst avoiding a side table, concealed in the shadows created by the fire. She clung to him, to avoid falling and rested her head against his chest as she laughed and the same feelings of happiness and lightness she had felt when she had finally released her secret about Fred, bubbled up inside her and he clung back. They were both out of breath took a moment to catch it before he offered her his hand once again and they resumed their waltz, as energetically as before.

A clatter outside made both of them jump and they stilled instantly, clinging to each other as they gasped for breath. Someone or something moved outside the door and both fell instantly silent, listening carefully for who it might be.

"It will be mother going to bed…" John whispered but he did not move. When the footsteps faded, their laughter died with it and the room seemed suddenly smaller as the warm glow started to dim and the air thickened. Nervous now for the first time that evening, she looked up at him to see him studying her closely. Their hands were still linked and his other resting in its place at her waist but at some point, she had dropped hers and clutched it to her racing heart. His Adam's apple bobbed thickly as he released her waist and carefully gripped her wrist, playing with the thin silver bracelet that sat there beneath the lace. Slowly, he returned her hand to his shoulder, all the while his eyes never leaving hers and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Slowly, he pulled her closer to him, so that her body was flush against his, and began swaying her gently from side to side. They had found themselves in a similar situation to this enough times now for Margaret to know it would hurt her to see his expression in this proximity and so she turned her head to rest it against his shoulder as they danced, feeling the beat of his heart vibrate through his body and knew her own was doing the same. He rested his head against the top of hers as they slowly moved.

As he breathed in deeply, Margaret hoped he liked the smell of lavender soap as no doubt her hair carried the scent. The events of the day raced through her mind and her breathing stuttered a little as she remembered him calling her beautiful in the rain, and for the first time she wished she had at least felt how it would be to dance with someone you were in love with who would tell you that as you were doing so.

For a while they continued content and the flames in the grate began to wither and die, dimming the room further. As a crackle of ash flickered out, he cleared his throat before he spoke into her hair, his voice quiet. "You did an excellent job of acting this evening. I was most impressed."

Acting. Of course, he had told her she should pretend to be in love with him for the benefit of their families. After the elaborated version of how they had met and 'fell in love' she had quite forgotten about having to fool anyone and simply allowed herself to enjoy being the centre of attention- no acting had crossed her mind at all. Her happiness had fully overridden any thoughts of 'putting on a show' for their families. He must have assumed the happiness radiating from her was for show- certainly Edith believed it was a sign of deep affection as she had commented on it several times.

"I was relieved that very little deception was required- Father used to say that when I am truly happy it has the vibrancy of glass in sunlight. It sounds poetic but he probably simply meant that my happiness is garish and obnoxious." She smiled into his shoulder, a little sadly at the memory.

"Your father most definitely did not mean that."

She knew deep down that Papa did not, but it made her heart feel better to hear it from someone her father so respected.

"Which part of today made you feel the most happy?"

She thought for a moment, the events of the day playing over and over in her mind.

"Finally, being able to tell you the truth about Fred… my yellow roses..." She tilted her head a little, irrationally checking that no-one had touched them since they had been placed on the bed.

He remained quiet and Margaret would have given anything to have known what he was thinking.

"Did you not feel happy also?" she asked, unable to stop her curiosity. She was aware that her voice had adopted a vulnerable edge but she did not care.

"Of course, I did."

"Which part made you feel the most happy?" she mirrored his question. After all, it was only fair.

"This." His answer was quick and sure and her heart leapt a little at the word. They were alone in his bedroom, his mother had gone to bed and this was not the innocent waltz of earlier, this was slow and made her feel funny. Her stomach flopped uncomfortably as she was forced to acknowledge that this kind of dancing she had not ever done with Henry or any of the other fawning young men in London. There was no need to pretend now and yet she had allowed herself to end up in a confusing situation again. Her head was becoming cloudy and there wasn't enough air in this room. She needed to break away and so with all the might she could muster she dropped his hand and lowered her other from his shoulder to place both on his chest and push him away from her.

"Did my answer upset you?" His brow was furrowed with confusion and his face stern in the half-light.

No, she was not really upset, rather unsettled, perhaps unwell and just needed to end whatever spell she had allowed the magic of the evening to cast over her.

"No, but it frightens me." She admitted, backing away from him and resuming her place on the bed, reaching for her flowers and clutching them to her.

"Why?" He came to sit beside her. He was offended- he was trying to hide it but she could hear it in his voice.

Why did it frighten her? She had practically asked him to dance with her again so why should the thought that he enjoyed something she wanted scare her in such a manner? Her addled brain was too tired, becoming confused and the more she tried to order her thoughts, the more it ached in response.

"I don't know." It was the only honest answer she could give.

Confusion crossed his brow and the piercing blue of his eyes seemed to be reaching into her very soul and attempting to drag out all the mixed-up thoughts she was battling to keep down.

The last embers of the fire went out and the room was plunged into darkness.

"Sorry, I should have lit a lamp."

She could hear him scrabbling to find a match in the darkness and she waited. Finally, he found what he was looking for and a lamp sent light spilling out into the room once more. The lamp was placed on the bedside table carefully and Margaret realised with shock that the clock resting there read a quarter after midnight.

"I am sorry, John. I just don't feel well. I probably ate too much and I suppose I am tired after such a long day."

"I should have realised. I am sorry."

She watched him as he turned from her and removing his jacket, walked away towards his night stand and draped his jacket over it. Then he removed his cravat and placed it with his jacket and Margaret watched interestedly.

"Do you mind if I undress?" He asked, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs without pausing for her answer or looking for any sign of her consent.

She shook her head regardless and quickly looked away from him towards the wide windows behind the bed. The object folded neatly on her pillow, when picked up, turned out to be a nightdress, no doubt unpacked by Martha and Margaret supposed she should also get ready for bed. Still clad in all her wedding finery, save for the veil, she stood to survey what needed to be done. To her horror, no matter how many times she reached and stretched at many different angles, there was simply no way she could undo more than two or three buttons from the back of her dress without an assistant. Panic gripped her as the lateness of the hour, and the fact that Martha was probably long in bed struck her. It had also not escaped her that calling a maid to her now, when she was still fully dressed on her wedding night was bound to raise a few questions- her conversations with Edith before the older girl was married had told her that. She supposed she could call for Mrs Thornton but she could not face the shame of her knowing either and there was only one other alternative. Even in a marriage like theirs, it was going to be impossible to avoid him seeing her in her under garments forever. Perhaps she should just get it over and done with? Defeated, she took her place on the bed again and reviewed all her options, yet no matter how she debated it there was only one thing to be done.

"John?" She called, not brave enough to fully look in his direction.

"John?" she repeated, louder, when he did not respond.

"Yes, Margaret?" He answered, sounding tired.

How was it best to phrase her predicament? There was really only one way to say it.

"I cannot get out of this dress myself."

Gathering her courage, she turned towards him. His shirt tails were untucked and the front of his shirt nearly open but other than that he was fully dressed and she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh." He did not seem sure what to say to that, and looked gormlessly at her for a moment as if baffled about what had possessed her to tell him so.

"Shall I wake a maid to help you?" he asked, moving towards the door.

"No!" She blurted desperately. "I don't want to wake them."

"They will not mind."

"but they will know… know that we haven't…" she trailed off shyly, unable to voice what they would know and finally understanding crossed his face.

"Will you help me undo all the buttons down the back?"

Quickly, he gathered himself together and adopted the business-like nature she was so used to now.

"Turn around." He commanded, unaffected, as if he was asked to undo ladies' dresses every day. Perhaps he was or had been. From what she knew of him it was unlikely but her stomach churned at the thought nonetheless in a most alarming manner.

Obediently, she turned, and watched their reflection in the mirror as he first swept the stray hairs which had broken free of her hair pins throughout the day, away from her neck and she held them out of his way, trying to keep her breathing quiet. His fingers worked quickly on the buttons and his face in the mirror was a picture of concentration. As he continued to unfasten, he began to slow, painfully slow, and Margaret had to fight to keep her breathing even as his hands reached her lower back and paused.

"Is that enough?" He asked her, his mill owner voice in full force, despite his deeply blushing cheeks and she shook her head into the mirror.

"No. You need to go a little lower so I can slip out of it."

She heard as well as saw him gulp thickly in the mirror before his hands continued their work, unhooking the small buttons until he reached the very bottom her back when they stilled again and she nodded to inform him he had gone far enough.

Clutching the front of her dress to her she tried to reach around to grab the strings of her corset but found she could not.

"Do I untie it?" her husband asked quietly and she nodded again, clutching the open dress to her body tighter and his hands worked on the tightly knotted bow. She could see him fumbling with the stubborn knot in the mirror and silently cursed Edith for tying it so well.

"I'm sorry… I can't quite…" his face was focussed as he moved the dress from her shoulders down to her arms to give him a better view and she gasped sharply as his hands brushed against the bare skin of her upper back and he muttered something indistinguishable as an apology, the flames of his cheeks visible in the reflection. That thin glass thread, that they had woven between them through their revelations in the carriage, felt all the more vulnerable and Margaret feared it would snap at any moment and they would return to ignoring each other with the barest of civilities. On the other hand, if they could only get through this, it would be stronger, less fragile, and if this situation were to arise again, surely less embarrassing? His hands brushed her skin again and her nerve ends set on fire. His hands were warm but trembling as badly as they were at the wedding, which did something funny to her heart and made her feel as though she might faint. Finally, he managed to undo the knot and pull on the first few strings enough for her to assure him that she could manage the rest. Thanking him, she begged him not to look and started to remove her dress.

It wasn't that she didn't trust him, but she found herself looking around to check he was not looking every few seconds, which halted her progress considerably. Dutifully, he faced away attending to his own clothes and, satisfied, she stopped looking.

Quickly, before he could turn around, she chose a side of the unturned covers and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets as high up to her neck as she could without suffocating, her eyes closed shut so that she could not see him. Her hair was still pinned in places into its elaborate style but she did not care. She would leave it until tomorrow and deal with logistics of removing them then.

His footfall on the rug, signalled he was done and she felt the bed move a little as he climbed in on the other side and blew out the candle. Neither of them spoke as they lay there facing the ceiling in the darkness.

Lying next to someone else was going to take some getting used to. No part of their body was touching but she could still feel the heat radiating off him. Margaret bit her lips agitatedly, as she tried to remain completely still for fear of accidently bumping him or waking him if he was already asleep. It was going to be a very long night. If she could only hear his breath deepen to tell her he was asleep she could move and might be in with a chance of sleeping herself and so she waited, counting the ticks of the clock as the sound filled the otherwise silent room. After what felt like a lifetime, he still had not moved but she had the distinct impression he was still as awake as she and also staring at the ceiling.

"Margaret?"

A short time later, he whispered her name, confirming her suspicion.

"Yes." She tried unsuccessfully to respond without moving at all.

"Are you alright?"

"I think so." She whispered back, unsure why they were whispering. Silence settled back over them and she waited for him to fall asleep, returning to counting the beats of the clock.

By the time she had reached five thousand beats, she was still no closer to falling asleep and becoming more and more convinced she was going to have to go the whole night without moving.

"I am sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable." Unable to remain still and silent any longer she spoke to the empty room more for something to do than to really speak to the man beside her.

"I am sorry if I did it wrong." The fact that he had replied did not surprise her but the words caught her off guard.

"You did not."

From outside the hoot of an owl, sounded and silence fell again.

Later today her family would be gone, Edith, Aunt Shaw and Dixon and she would be left alone in a strange house with a strange man and his mother who hated her and her parents would still be dead and no amount of dancing or helping Nicholas and his family would bring them back. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back furiously, telling herself over and over to be brave.

She only managed to count to fifty before she could not stay quiet any longer.

"John, I am scared."

The tick of the clock sounded nine times before he responded.

"Of me?"

"No." How was she to explain it? She was not scared of him, he would not hurt her. She scared of the future and had no idea what she was doing or what their deal really held for her life, but how could she voice that fear without sounding as though she did not trust him.

"I just still don't know what we are supposed to do now." She settled for his words from earlier but this time the urge to laugh was completely absent.

"I don't know either, Margaret but we will work it out together." His voice was unwavering and confident and made her want to cry more.

"Do you promise?" She implored. It was childish and silly but she had always asked her father to promise when she was unsure of something he had said when she was little.

"I promise."

Feeling a little better, she shifted just slightly, as much as she dared, so that she was not in so much danger of falling off the bed in the middle of the night. Perhaps he had been as scared to move as she, for he too shifted just a little more fully onto the bed. She wanted to take his hand but didn't dare. Instead, she stretched her fingers out just a little to see where it was. He must have done the same, for she could feel his hand splayed also. Slowly, he shifted it just a little, not taking her hand, but resting his so that the side of her small hand and finger, touched against the side of his and Margaret closed her eyes as he softly stroked his little finger along hers. They did not speak again but he continued the simple actions long after she fell asleep hours later.


	10. Chapter 10

Sorry guys- same chapter re-posted as a kind user pointed out I had made a rather significant typo! I apologise.

Dear readers, I am so sorry for the longer delay. I can't believe it has been so long. For those of you who have asked, I will without a doubt make sure I complete this story, but updates will be further apart than they have previously been. The wait was so long as I got distracted by summer for a few weeks and then I became ill and was in hospital for ages without a laptop! I'm out and getting back to normal now so hopefully life will get back on track asap and I will update quicker than this last time.

Thank you for continuing to read and review. Your words are so encouraging to read and make me focus on writing when I can.

Happy reading!

Elle. X

…

The steady ticking of the clock was a constant reminder that he would need to be awake in a few hours to begin work at the mill, and yet, John had remained unable to sleep. Instead of giving in to the will of his aching eyes, his is mind raced, unrelenting. His head thundered from tiredness and his neck ached from laying still for so long, but there was nothing he could do to rectify his discomfort without the risk that he would likely wake the woman resting beside him. He wondered, wearily, whether sleep was to become a distant friend-missed-but increasingly absent.

For hours he had lain still, eyes open as he tried not to think about the faint scent of lavender that seemed to radiate from the opposite side of his bed. He had told himself, that he should place his hand beside Margaret's, caressing hers with the barest touch to comfort her, but the truth was, it was entirely for selfish reasons. The longing to turn and absorb the image of her sleeping form was unbearable, but the innocent touch was the only acknowledgement of their closeness that he would allow himself. It was all he dared. Thus far, any attempt to comfort her in other ways had not ended well and he could not afford to take liberties with her, or with his heart, again.

Interestingly, his new wife had not wanted the maids to know that they had not consummated their marriage. It was a fair wish; he was not thrilled about the idea either, but the fact that she had thought it through and considered asking him to undress her to be the preferable option of the two had surprised him. He had tried so hard to remain unaffected by her request and all that it did to his nerves, but he was unsure whether she had been fooled or not. Women's clothes were not something he was adept at working and he had soon discovered that undoing such buttons and strings without touching any skin was practically impossible. Surely, she could not help but notice how his hands had shaken so, heedless to his wish for them to still? They did not shake now, and his heart had slowed to a steady rhythm despite his growing annoyance at his inability to find sleep.

As his mind raced in circles over and over, John readjusted his head on the pillow for the hundredth time and screwed his eyes shut, yet he it appeared this was one battle that he could not win. If he opened his eyes, the darkness beckoned him, promising to lead him into sleep and yet the outline of the thicker darkness to his left reminded him how close he was to what he desired more than anything, shattering any hope he had in its power to help him as the responsibility he had invited threatened to crush him. Closing them, however was equally distracting, as images of her giggling as she twirled in his arms and the paleness of her flawless shoulders and back, exposed as he battled with her corset laces, swam before his eyes. The delicate softness of her skin beneath his hands as he fumbled foolishly with the buttons on the back of her dress, still caressed his fingers instead of the cool cotton bedding beneath them.

This was what his life was to be like now. He was to see her every night and morning, to undress her touch her platonically, never asking for more and wish for her under the cover of darkness, whilst she slept beside him, completely unaware of his inner turmoil. He had realised numerous times since the morning she had appeared in his office, windswept and distressed, that it was going to be difficult, but it appeared he had previously had no understanding of the pain the torture he was going to be inflicting on himself, until he had seen her in a state no other had and lain next to her as he now did.

He had hoped, wished that her invitation to him to change her mind about dancing had been a glimmer of hope for something more between them, more than just polite friendship and yet he had scared her with something as simple as revealing his favourite moment of a surprisingly happy day to be holding her close against him as he smelled the floral tones of her hair and felt her small body shudder against his. It had made sense for her to be overwhelmed; he was overwhelmed by the magnitude of what they had done himself. Indeed, he had spoken the truth when he had said he knew not what two people who had married so that one of them could remain in the north of England and escape her families interference, and the other in a last ditch attempt to keep the only woman he had ever loved near him (even if it meant she would never love him back), were supposed to do on their wedding night. At least if it was a true marriage, he would have known what they were expected to do, even if she would have still been overwhelmed.

He hoped he had assured her with a confidence he had not felt that they would figure out the logistics of their marriage together and she had sounded so desperate, so afraid as she had admitted, so unbelievably young, as she had begged him to promise her that he had felt as though he had taken advantage of a child and had scared her. She had denied it, of course, but of what else did she have to be afraid? Only her future and he was that very future. He wished he could just hate her for all the times she had hurt him- for making him feel this way. Why did he have to love her so? John's stomach flipped as he thought of the mill and how much work he had still to do in an attempt to claw back the losses of the strike. Without a doubt, he could fix it, he had to- now more than ever- but how he was to orchestrate it and how long it would take eluded him.

Still, there was no point overthinking everything. She had agreed to all he proposed and now he must simply battle against his desires and yearn for her in silence. He would keep his distance in the day, focussing all his attention on the mill, forbidding himself from indulging in distractions from his task and only allow himself to be close to her at night. Closing his eyes, he pushed out the doubt and worry and allowed himself to picture her tantalising skin beneath the patterned lace and her eyes shining as he danced with her.

…

The sky was dark and thunderous, and Margaret's skirts felt heavy as she lifted them to avoid tripping as she ran. The thick trees surrounding her loomed threateningly as she weaved in and out, barely escaping the determined clutches of each branch. From what so ardently she ran, she did not know, but the need to keep moving was overwhelming.

In the distance a figure stood, nearly indistinguishable in the gloom but she knew he was there, dark and foreboding but her only chance of escape from this place. Desperate, she struggled towards him. Her heart pounded, and her lungs screamed for release from exertion, but she could not stop. Her vision swam and the horrifying realisation that he was not going to help her settled in her stomach. She was not able to discern the expression on the figures face, but knew he watched her as she ran, desperate to reach him but something was wrong.

Screaming, her voice was shrill and thin as her plea for help echoed around the forest, but it was to no avail. She was no closer to her chance of escape- still fifty yards away and unmoving. The figure did not even flinch- making no sign that he had heard her pleas- he only watched her. Her limbs hurt from exhaustion and yet no matter now far she ran, stumbling blindly over roots and stones, the figure only watched. Collapsing in despair, tears streaming down her face, Margaret sobbed on the cold floor as finally the figure moved, turning from her and walking away without a backwards glance.

…

Sunlight filtered through the edges of the still drawn curtains and Margaret rapidly blinked before tearing her protesting eyes fully open. They were wet, as were her cheeks, and she gasped for air, letting it flood into her lungs. The forest was long gone but the fear that had felt so real remained. Somehow her mind had remembered that she could not permit herself to move and her arms still lay rigid at her side. The room was dominated by darkness, but the slithers of light leaking through the gap in the curtains allowed her to be able to read the time on the clock beside the bed. It was a little after five thirty. She had little idea of what time Mr Thornton rose to attend the mill but the gentle weight barely resting on the edge of her hand told her he was still beside her.

Trying ardently to take a glance at his dark figure without waking him, she tilted her head a little to the side. His eyes appeared to still be tightly scrunched shut and the blanket covering them both softly rose and fell with each deep breath. It was surprisingly comforting to find he kept that small contact between them and her breathing began to slow but the feeling of unease persisted. Being so close to someone, especially a man, with so few barriers of clothing between them felt wrong, yet he looked so completely vulnerable sleeping beside her and for some reason that made it seem so much more overwhelming.

It was indecent of her, but in the semi-darkness she could not help but turn her head carefully to watch him, knowing that there was no-one there to realise what she was doing. As the clock ticked by Margaret studied his face, the strong jaw and his lips slightly parted as he exhaled. A blush rose to her cheeks as she recalled the way he had held her to him as they danced the night before, his scent intoxicating her. His brow was creased a little, as if he dreamed of something troubling and, if she had been a different type of woman, she may have been tempted to trace the furrowed brow up to his dark dishevelled hair. Seeing him like this made her previous fear as he had held her against his chest and declared that their soft and sensual dance was his favourite part of a surprisingly happy day, seem completely irrational. What did she have to fear? Only the awkwardness of their lack of privacy. If she felt uncomfortable dancing, she could simply refuse to do so in future, yet that feeling of adrenaline as he had twirled her around the room for the second time in one day had been intoxicating. He had taken her challenge and until she had stopped him, he had been well on the way to changing her opinion of dancing for the better.

Without warning, his eyes flickered open and Margaret gulped audibly as her head snapped back to face the ceiling. For a moment, neither of them moved, their fingers still touching beneath the blanket as they stared steadfastly above them. An uncomfortable silence stretched on and Margaret knew she needed to break it before it settled in for good. Tentatively, she turned her head back towards him to find him looking at her, those blue orbs staring into her soul. She wanted to talk to him, to bring back some of the ease they had started to adopt after the wedding, but for the first time in weeks, her mind was empty. Perhaps, he felt it- the silence closing in, because finally, after hours of restraint, he moved his hand to take hers, his eyes never faltering in intensity. It caught Margaret off guard and she involuntarily gasped and flinched her hand away from his. Pain flashed across his face, though she could tell he had tried to keep it from showing and she knew she needed to explain that he had simply caught her off guard.

"Mr Thornton- John, I…" but as he turned his head back to the ceiling, her chance was gone.

It was too late- the silence had won.

Disinterestedly, he turned from her, pulling the blankets back and Margaret sat up on the bed, folding her arms protectively across her as if that would in some way shield the fact that she was wearing a nightgown in front of a man (who was not her father or brother and who she had managed to offend without saying anything) for the first time, and fixed her eyes firmly on the ceiling, not wanting to invade his privacy.

"How did you sleep?" His voice was cold, and she shivered in response, wishing he had not asked at all.

"Adequately, thank you." She replied with an equal lack of feeling. Margaret felt as though she should ask him the same question but the tired circles around his eyes had given his answer, without words.

"How long have you been awake?" He asked quieter, the splashes of water following suggested he was washing on the other side of the room and she firmly studied the pattern on the ceiling to keep her eyes focussed away.

"A while." She admitted. "I couldn't get back to sleep."

"I am sorry to hear that."

He didn't sound particularly sorry.

The sound of material being pulled onto skin told her he had started dressing but she could not help but let her eyes drop to the mirror to chance a look at him. He was nearly dressed and turned away from her as he fastened the buttons on the front of his shirt and cuffs. He finished and reached for his cravat.

Margaret wished she could turn from him and do the same, but it was not so simple for her. She would need help with dressing and the idea of asking Mr Thornton for help this morning seemed unthinkable. There was only one thing for it. She cleared her throat a little before, speaking properly: "I may need a maid's assistance today. Do you think I could ask Martha to help me? Or one of the others?"

"I will get Martha for you." He declared, sitting on the other side of the bed with his back to her to pull on his socks. Her heart dropped a little, at his easy answer. A small part of her had been hoping he would offer to help her.

"I will come back around midday today to say goodbye to your family, but I must return afterwards. I was hoping not to, but we have fallen a little behind with an order."

"Oh." She replied disappointed, both with his words and that he appeared to be speaking to his shoes rather than her. How had they fallen behind with an order? What were they doing to rectify it? He was lucky that she had found out about this in her night gown, grasping a blanket to cover herself, when she was feeling too exposed to take on the task of grilling him on this revelation. Under normal circumstance he would not have got away with it so easily. There were so many questions she wanted to ask but she bit them back.

Unpleasantly, it was starting to dawn on Margaret that she was likely to end up with a lot of free time alone with his mother and the thought did not thrill her. She had been hoping that since it was only the day after the wedding he might not have needed to work the whole day so that she would have an allay at least for the afternoon. Still, now that they had returned to barely talking, she supposed she might be better off alone.

He quickly finished getting ready and awkwardly left to ask Martha to assist her with dressing. Free from his presence Margaret made the most of analysing his chamber. In the light of day, it appeared more functional than homely and as she gazed at the chest at the end of the bed, that they had so clumsily avoided in their dance, her nerves flickered at the memory.

Thankfully she did not have time to consider the implications further as Martha arrived to help her dress. The girl was certainly softer and quicker than Dixon at tying a corset and fixing her hair, but Margaret could feel that she was assessing her as if to see whether the rumours she had doubtless heard were true.

As soon as she was dressed in her mourning clothes, Margaret dismissed the maid and began her search for where whoever unpacked her luggage would have placed her father's Plato, another of his books she had kept as it contained his writing in the cover, and her notebook containing the letters she had received. Thankfully, she found it with little effort, tucked neatly at the back of the wardrobe, and selected two blank pages. Her bouquet of yellow roses still lay one the small stand beside the bed, still vibrant but now slightly wilted and the petals crinkled at the edges. Her eyes watered slightly at the sentiment behind them that seemed now to be so distant and she sighed sadly.

Within the pages of her notebook she placed a single rose, which had best survived the night without water, and pressed it tightly. She had meant it when she told him her bouquet was the best present she had ever been given and she wished she could keep the beautiful buds forever, but pressing one was the next best thing. The idea to do so had struck her last night as she had lain awake, but she could not bear the thought of him knowing that that was her intention. It was too embarrassing and personal. Quickly, she hid the book back at the bottom of the wardrobe and took a glance around the room before she left. The small white envelope still sat on his desk, calling her to it but she turned from it before it could take hold of her. Summoning her restraint, she took a deep breath and headed down stairs to join her husband.

…

Both John and his mother were already seated when she entered, though John wordlessly stood and pulled her chair out for her to take.

Breakfast had been fairly painless: pleasantries having been exchanged with Mrs Thornton, who apparently rose in time to eat breakfast with her son every morning, and not a hint of criticism had been uttered, but Margaret was not fooled. She knew it was coming; it was just a matter of when.

Mr Thornton seemed keen to be away from the house as quickly as possible and rose as soon as he had eaten and wished his mother a good day. To Margaret's dismay, he had barely acknowledged her presence since he had helped her to her seat, focussing on his mother and thanking the maid but making no reference to her at all, other than to inform her that he would return around lunchtime before heading for the door. With one hand on the dining room door handle, he seemed to be debating something, comically turning to leave and then returning twice, before he strode towards her with conviction and kissed her cheek abruptly before striding from the room. Baffled, Margaret watched him silently, before returning to her breakfast, aware that her cheek had coloured a little and her mother-in-law's eyes were on her.

The moment John, closed the door of the dining room, the atmosphere became sharp, piercing through Margaret like a knife and she regarded his mother, who had returned to eating, with trepidation. There was something she wanted to say, and Margaret knew her well enough to be assured that she was going to say it, whether Margaret wanted to hear it or not.

"Thank you for everything you did to help with the wedding, Mrs Thornton. I am immensely grateful." She was the one to try and break the ice, deciding she might as well try and ease them into conversation and do so pleasantly before the older woman hit her with the blow that was destined to come.

"I did not do it for you."

Margaret did not doubt that and was not insulted by the blunt words, even if that was what Mrs Thornton had intended.

"Of course you didn't- you did it for your son- but I am thankful nonetheless."

His mother, studied her for a moment, her expression intrigued but not openly critical.

"There is no point in hiding behind empty pleasantries this morning, Miss Hale. I shall speak plainly and thank you for not informing my son of what I am about to say."

Her eyes met Margaret's and held them there, mercilessly as she spoke.

"I would not dream of it. I admire nothing more than bluntness when speaking on an unpleasant subject matter." She countered. It was the truth that she had no intention of telling John of any of the conversation she knew was about to occur.

Mrs Thornton gave her a long hard look. She inhaled deeply, blinking once before she spoke.

"When my son told me you had accepted him, I was not particularly thrilled. In fact, I was angry, Miss Hale. You rejected him once, despite practically throwing yourself at him and yet you now accepted him when you have no other options left. It seemed to me that your feelings still were not as he wished. After bereavement we all act rashly, and I believed he should have waited before asking you to marry him again."

Margaret regarded the woman interestedly. So, she did doubt Margaret's intentions. She might not be privy to the details of her arrangement with John, but she knew something was wrong. Margaret was sure of it. She did not like the scrutinous look she was being afforded and raised her chin in defiance at the accusation laid before her. What would his mother know of either of their intentions? It had also not escaped her attention that the woman had called her Miss Hale- a name that no longer defined her and she knew that very well since she was the one who had repeatedly pointed out to her that they could stop using such formality in private.

"I would rather you called me Margaret, 'Hannah', but if you insist on using more formal titles, then I must insist that you remember to call me by the correct name. It is Mrs Thornton now, not Miss Hale. How ironic that despite your clear disapproval of my character, we must now share a name."

Mrs Thornton's eyebrows raised, but she did not speak. It was a petty retort and she was not proud of the purposeful swipe at her mother in law but it necessary in Margaret's opinion. To the woman's credit, she did not utter a sarcastic reply but instead waited for Margaret to say her piece.

"I may have not understood what I was turning down the first time your son asked me to marry him, but I am not the sort of person to play with something as serious as marriage. Rest assured that I knew what I was doing when I accepted. Had John waited as you advised, my answer would have remained the same."

To her surprise, rather than her frown deepening, the corners of Hannah Thornton's mouth raised just a little for a moment before the usual impassive repose returned.

"You are a head strong, foolish and naïve girl but I am not so filled with dislike for you that I believe you would marry my son to be malicious. I do believe you have realised what you missed out on through your pride, but you have hurt him innumerably. It pains me to see that still he believes himself to not be good enough for you, despite your behaviour and declining reputation. You must know that your virtue has now been called into question on more than one occasion…"

"What occasions?" Margaret interrupted angrily, her voice rising in volume. She could feel her anger flex at the accusation and her eyes flared at her new mother- in-law.

Now they were getting to the crux of the matter. Margaret was fully aware that she had not handled John's first proposal well and probably deserved everything his mother had said until that point, but it still hurt to hear it criticised again. Her last comment, however, was too much.

Mrs Thornton's voice, annoyingly, remained level. "You have dragged my son into your antics, first by practically throwing yourself on him on the day of the riots…"

She had kept quiet the first time she had been accused of this but could do so no longer, protesting vehemently before being silenced by Mrs Thornton raising her hand to quiet her.

"… and then doing so again at your own father's funeral! Oh, I am not saying that my son was blameless on that occasion, but it was an inappropriate stance for two unmarried people. John has not expressly said so but for him to have been as concerned for your reputation as he was that night, more happened than that which was witnessed by the Latimers. It was surely not a mere misunderstanding!"

An inexplicable urge to stand, as if the difference in height would give her the response she had as yet not formed more gravity, coursed through Margaret and she was forced to grip the seat of the chair with both hands to remain sitting.

Tears stung the corners of Margaret's eyes at the sheer unfairness of it all. So that was what people were saying about her yet again- that she had thrown herself at Mr Thornton at her mother's funeral, when it was he that he comforted her! She could feel her anger pounding in her ears and she wanted to scream at the injustice, but she did not- instead clutching onto the chair so tightly that her nails threatened to leave marks in the wood.

Beneath the anger, the woman's other comments started to seep through. Did John really think he was not good enough for her? There had certainly been a time when she had thought herself above him, above anyone associated with trade really, but now she saw how entirely mistaken she had been. Had she not made up for it by marrying him? He had assured her he did not see it as a sacrifice but perhaps he had simply said all she wished to hear.

"Mrs Thornton."

She closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath.

"I know you have judged me for my previous behaviour. Much of the time I fear I deserved it, but I want you to know that I have not lowered or compromised myself in the way clearly thought on the night you came to speak to me following mother's death, despite what anyone may say- and your son knows that. There are things I have told him that I cannot tell you, that I believe for him have made all the difference in how he judges my character."

Her mother-in-law's eyebrows were raised again but her usual calm judgemental demeanour remained.

"I would rather you did not think so poorly of me, but I do not feel the need to justify myself further than I have already. All I will say is that I have done nothing to deserve your comments and do not wish to hear them repeated."

Heat was rising to her cheeks as she spoke and her voice waivered despite her determination.

"I know I am not 'too good' for John."

It was the first time she had called her husband by his Christian name in his mother's presence and the woman's eyes narrowed just a little as if she had been stung.

"You think he deserves better than me and I am fully aware that you are probably right, but I am trying to make up for my previous treatment of him now. I misjudged your son, but you have so completely misjudged me also, and offended me equally as deeply."

Mrs Thornton's lips were tightly pressed but her eyes no longer met Margaret's, who got the distinct impression that her words had touched a nerve.

For the second time that morning, silenced reigned, and Margaret could practically see the cogs tick in the older woman's brain. There came a point when the silence became uncomfortable and intrusive and Margaret began to squirm under its power when finally, Hannah Thornton spoke.

"Then we must agree that we will put our differences aside for John. I trust him implicitly and therefore will trust his choice, despite my misgivings." she concluded.

"Then that will have to be enough." Margaret replied, feeling there was nothing more to say. She was not about to profusely thank her mother in law for agreeing to be civil and give her a chance and thankfully his mother did not add anymore, simply looking her once over and calling for Marta to remove the dishes from the table.

Margaret excused herself from the room as soon as possible, keen to be away from the judgement and expectations of Hannah Thornton and was relieved when the older woman made no attempt to stop her or engage her in conversation again.

Was Edith's mother-in-law, Mrs Lennox, as stern and knowing as Mrs Thornton? She doubted any mother- in-law would be judgemental of Edith, who never offered an opinion on anything of substance and therefore held no risk of being seen as foolish and head-strong.

As she fled it occurred to her that those four people, Edith, her aunt, Henry Lennox and Dixon were her only ties to her family, her old life and, indeed, the south of England, and they were leaving her alone with a man who was once again ignoring her and a woman who tolerated her but wished she did not have to. Of course, she could visit them in London and they could visit her, but she knew that it was extremely likely that they would not. Seeing them leave would be difficult and she was dreading it more with each passing second. Stubbornly, she continued to feel the echoes of annoyance for Dixon, but it was over-ridden by her sadness that she would no longer have the company of one who had been so important to her mother in particular, but her father also, and even her in the previous few months.

Lonely but unwilling to spend longer in Mrs Thornton's company, she returned to John's bedchamber. Her bedchamber. The remaining wilting yellow blooms John had given her still rested on her bedside table and she sat on the edge of the bed, taking hold of them and smoothing a slightly wrinkled petal between her finger and thumb. If she hadn't married him, she would be leaving with her family now and returning to that familiar house in Harley Street, rather than this daunting and unfamiliar one. Without the fire from last night, the room seemed dark and cold and she wished Dixon was there with her after all so that she might not feel so lonely and overwhelmed at the enormity of her new life.

John had told her he would return at midday to say goodbye to her family and she found herself wishing for the hour to arrive so that she might have her goodbyes over and done with. Still stroking the softness of the wilting petals, she lay back onto the middle of the bed and stared at the ceiling as if it might offer her words of comfort. Martha must have come back into the room since she had left for breakfast and made the bed but if when she turned her head and buried it into the softness of the blankets, she could smell the soap and the sandalwood scent she had begun to associate specifically with him. It was faint, but surprisingly comforting and she pulled his pillow towards her to breathe him in deeper. Resting against it, she closed her eyes and lay there. How she wished she could have Fred here, just to talk to him for an hour, so that she might have someone to confide in! She would write to him that evening and tell him all that had happened. She had put pen to paper to inform him of her father's death but had been unable to finish it. It was too sad.

Feeling the cruel sting of tears, she shut her eyes and forced herself to put her sadness from her mind and focus on the happiness she had felt yesterday as she had talked with her friends and family and danced with her husband. With her eyes screwed shut and his smell around her she could succeed him her task but as she dared to open her eyes, her harsh reality came crashing down on her and robbing her of breath. Fred deserved to know about their father at least and it was unfair to keep it from him any longer. She must also tell him of her marriage or he was likely to try and return once more to see her and she could not bear for that to happen, especially after Papa had asked her to prevent it. They had been lucky last time but could not afford to take that chance again.

Drying her eyes on her sleeve, Margaret took a few steadying breaths and returned the pillow and flowers. On a small side table by the door lay a pen covered in notes, about orders and covered in numbers and beneath it blank sheets. She selected a single unstained sheet and penned a few words, simply relaying that Papa had died peacefully whilst visiting Mr Bell and that she was taken care of, having married a man she now claimed to have been courting long before he had visited. The ink suggested she had not told him earlier as she had not wanted to detract from their mother's needs in her final days. Indeed, she truly had not told him many things she would have liked to for that very reason, so it did not feel like lying. Almost.

After checking her face in the mirror for signs she had been crying, she retrieved her father's book from the back of the wardrobe and returned downstairs. Begrudgingly, she settled herself in a chair by the window in the large sitting room. Hannah was sat sewing in the corner and continued to do so after Margaret entered, without making any acknowledgement of Margaret's presence. Neither of them spoke more than strictly necessary for the rest of the morning, which wasn't difficult as Fanny arrived to visit soon after and did quite enough talking for three people on her own.

…

He hadn't remembered her family were coming to say goodbye. They had arrived at midday, as arranged, and Mrs Thornton had dutifully invited them in and asked Martha to serve tea. Henry had had not accompanied them and instead went to take care of some 'business' before leaving.

"Where is John?" Edith asked, craning her neck to peer around as though he was likely to appear at any moment. It was the first time Margaret and her cousin had been able to talk as Edith had instantly been monopolised by an eager Fanny, who seemed intent on informing Edith of the details of her new winter wardrobe, freshly ordered by Watson. Thankfully, Fanny had dropped Edith when Aunt Shaw mentioned the possibility of Fanny and Watson paying them a visit in London and had been eagerly engaged in arranging the details of such a visit since.

"He is working at the mill." Margaret replied, aware that her disappointment had leaked into her words.

"Oh. I suppose he must be very busy? Will you not be lonely," Edith asked, genuinely curious.

"Yes, he is." Margaret confirmed. She did not add that she was worried about the same thing.

Unperturbed, Edith exclaimed, "I cannot believe you are a married woman and yet you have not even met Sholto yet!" The childish pout that accompanied it made Margaret giggle at her cousin. In honesty, she was a little sad she had not yet met her little nephew. Margaret loved children and had no doubt she would love Sholto dearly.

"It is upsetting Edith, but you simply, must come and stay with us when you have time and bring Sholto with you. You can bring his nanny too if you wish!"

"I would love to. I shall ask the captain as soon as I see him."

Both ladies took the seats beside the window and Aunt Shaw seated herself with Fanny and Mrs Thornton. The former now appeared to be earnestly attempting to impress Aunt Shaw with vivid descriptions of her plans for decorating the walls of her new home with lavish papers and adornments. The latter, was serving tea gracefully, but the crease in her forehead gave away her annoyance with her daughter.

"How was it? Was it awful?" Edith whispered, grasping Margaret's elbow, her voice adopting a tone of conspiracy. She leaned into Margaret so that they may not be overheard, and Margaret got the distinct impression, she was missing something important as she had no idea what her cousin was talking about.

"Was what awful? The wedding?" She quietly questioned, confusion crossing her brow.

"No, silly." Edith chirped incredulous. "Last night! Did it hurt awfully when he did it?"

Did what? Why on earth would she get hurt? For a moment, she searched her cousin's face for a clue as to what on earth she could mean, completely baffled. Oh. Realisation flooded through her as suddenly, Margaret understood. Edith's words of advice to lie still and try to relax, ran through her memory. Her mouth gaping slightly, she wracked her brains pondering how to answer without blatantly lying. It seemed impossible. Edith had implied that it hurt when a man enacted his rights as a husband, so she supposed she should say that it was awful, but it seemed unfair to have her cousin think that about her husband when nothing about the reality of last night was awful. Unsettling perhaps, but not awful. This morning was a different matter but for entirely different reasons!

"No… No. It was… fine," she whispered back ineffectively, hoping that was an acceptable answer, and knowing it would not be.

"Fine? That's all?" Edith's disappointment was clear, and she waited with raised eyebrows for more information. Margaret floundered, not knowing what else to say on the matter.

"Does the Captain hurt you?" She asked, to try and distract her cousin from her own experience, or rather lack of. She could not deny that she was curious about how much it was really supposed to hurt. Margaret had assumed that one day she would get married and have children but had not considered what that would actually involve, and her mother would never have spoken to her about that sort of thing. Edith had told her all she knew before she was married, so she had a good idea of the logistics, but Margaret would never have thought to bring the subject up or ask anything further about it.

"The first time hurt a lot." She replied. "I cried, even though I tried so hard not to as Mama said I must bare it without complaint… but he's very gentle and now I have Sholto… so of course it is worth it and sometimes it is really quite pleasant."

Margaret nodded. A million more questions came to her mind in exchange for the one answer she had received. Still, the answers made no difference. It was irrelevant in her marriage.

"Are you ready to leave, Edith? The carriage will return for us at any moment!" Aunt Shaw's voice, called from across the room, where she was exchanging pleasantries with Mrs Thornton.

"In a moment, Mama." Edith returned.

Turning back to Margaret, she lowered her voice once more, "Of course, you do have to let him do it quite a lot to get a baby…"

Before she could give much thought to that information, the front door to the house opened, and heavy footfall in the hallway caught her attention. He was flustered, and his cheeks were a little red from the cold outside, and before Margaret had really thought about it she had left Edith sitting alone and practically ran across the room to him.

"John!" she exclaimed, her genuine excitement evident in her voice as she bobbed in her heels in front of him in a manner that was quite unlike her, a smile spreading across her face.

"Margaret," he nodded, his expression blank before looking past her to Aunt Shaw. "I'm sorry I was not here to greet you, Madam. There was an incident at the mill."

"Does that happen often, Mr Thornton!" Aunt Shaw asked, doubt evident in her voice.

"I am afraid so." He did not elaborate but strode past Margaret towards her Aunt, whose heart plummeted at his rejection.

"I cannot stay but wanted to wish you well and thank you for being such a comfort to Margaret at this time."

Her Aunt replied but Margaret did not hear it, turning her back on him and returning to Edith who seemed to have noticed nothing.

"I do hope you and Mr Thornton will have your own baby soon, so that Sholto may have someone to play with!" she declared happily, taking Margaret's hand in her own.

Margaret could picture it, Sholto, a toddler, playing with a smaller child with John's eyes. It made her chest feel oddly empty as she remembered that it could never be.

"Perhaps. You'll be the first to know, Edith!" she promised, knowing her words were empty.

"First to know what?" a deep voice joined the conversation and Margaret looked up to see him stood before her, his face still expressionless.

"When you are expecting a baby, of course!" Edith whispered, as if it was a great secret. Margaret watched his face as his eyes flicked to hers and held them for a moment.

"I must return to the mill. I will see you tonight." He declared, without acknowledging Edith's comment.

"Goodbye, Edith. I appreciate all you have done for Margaret and we would love to have you visit with us soon." John bowed his head to her, offering her the echo of a small smile and tentatively accepting her offer of a visit to Harley Street, before striding from the room.

As soon as he had left, Aunt Shaw had declared that it was time to go and she and Edith had hugged her tightly and wished her well before they left.

…

He hadn't returned for dinner. Thankfully Fanny had stayed for the afternoon, providing endless piano solos and gossip about various families in Milton. She had decided to dine with them as Watson was meeting some of the other mill owners and she did not care to dine alone, thus, the pressure to engage in a conversation with her mother-in-law that neither of them wanted was lifted. Fanny talked non-stop about the plans she had made with Aunt Shaw to visit London and her mother's lips had pursed more and more with each additional detail but Margaret, for once, was glad and encouraged Fanny to keep talking, despite the look of annoyance Hannah Thornton directed in her direction each time. Her anger at John for his rude treatment of her prevented her from caring about increasing the woman's dislike of her.

After Fanny had left, Margaret had returned to her bed chamber alone as quickly as was polite. Someone had lit the fire already and her nightgown had been returned to its place on her pillow. To her dismay, her roses were gone, no doubt disposed of by one of the maids. She had known they would not last long of course and she felt less disposed to disappointment given her anger for the person who had given her them, but she still missed the last link to Helston that the sight of them provided.

When Martha, knocked to help her prepare to retire, she debated on asking Martha why she had taken them without permission, but her anger increased with each passing moment that her husband was absent, and she remained silent, only speaking to thank the maid for helping her undress.

Without the pressure of John watching her, she removed her hair pins brushed through her hair before climbing into bed with a book and waiting.

By the time he arrived home it was close to midnight and the fire had long since gone out. The only light was the small flame of a candle she had lit beside her best and Margaret had given up on reading to pass the time. She wished she could ignore him completely and go to sleep but she knew in her frame of mind it would be pointless.

Finally, the door opened, and he walked in, rubbing his face with his hand as he did so. He looked quite dishevelled, with his cravat undone and hair sticking up where he had clearly run his fingers through it. She did not sit up, instead half watching him from her position in bed.

"I thought you would have gone to sleep." He stated, without looking at her and walking around to his side of the room. Apparently, that was all the communication she was to receive as he promptly walked to his desk, where the letter in her father's hand still lay, and began writing something on a piece of unmarked parchment there.

"Why have you been rude to me all day?" she accused quietly, unable to remain silent any longer.

He sighed but did not look up. "I haven't, I have just been busy at the mill, Margaret."

She knew he was busy, had he not told her so this morning? She did not see why that should account for his actions towards her.

"That is no excuse for your treatment of me!"

"I am sorry, I was just busy and did not really have time to leave the mill at that moment."

He sighed again, distractedly and left the desk to sit on the edge of the bed facing from her as he started to undress. Margaret's eyes shot to the ceiling to give him privacy as was now becoming the routine, despite her wish to see his reaction to her anger.

"You acted as though I wasn't even there!"

"I didn't mean to do that, Margaret. I was distracted."

"Then why did you?" She pressed, realising that arguing with someone you couldn't look at was much harder than she would have anticipated. She made a note not to start an argument when such a thing was necessary if at all possible.

"As, I said, it was unintentional."

That blank unaffected voice that annoyed her so, had returned and Margaret gritted her teeth in annoyance to his disinterest. The ceiling was doing little to help her in voicing her anger and Margaret was pleased to finally hear the rustle of blankets as he climbed into bed with her.

"How was that unintentional? I was pleased you had managed to get away to see my family and you completely ignored me!" She blurted out, chancing a look in his direction to see the effect of her words. He was next to her, staring at the distorted shadows the candle was casting onto ceiling as intently as she had been a few seconds ago.

"Why did you lie to your cousin?" he asked the ceiling.

"What?"

"Why did you lie to Edith?"

"I didn't!"

"You allowed her to think something might happen that never will." The sharp edge of accusation had crept into his words.

"What would you have had me say?" She asked. Baffled as to how this could have been turned around against her. "Should I have told Edith that Sholto will never have a cousin from us and explained the rest of our situation as well?"

He did not reply but blinked and Margaret knew that he knew this was a pointless stance to take.

"John?" She turned her body towards him, lying on her side as she tried to get his attention. He was ignoring her again.

"John!" It came out more pleading than she wanted but had the desired effect as he turned his body towards her. The proximity shocked her a little as they now faced each other, closer than she would comfortably stand to look at him.

He must have seen her hurt in her eyes and way they betrayed her as they started to brim with tears, and she could not doubt his sincerity as his blue ones held hers for a few moments before he whispered: "Margaret, I am sorry to have upset you. Believe me, that was not my intention."

His eyes seemed to be searching into her very soul as he held her gaze then, and Margaret's heart began to quicken from something other than anger.

"Please forgive me?" he asked, never once looking from her in contrast to his earlier avoidance. She did not reply, straight away, narrowing her eyes as she debated, but never breaking his gaze.

"Margaret?" If her voice had been pleading earlier, it was nothing compared to his, which seemed to seep desperation. Unable to deny him any longer, she nodded her forgiveness, but her brow remained furrowed, a trace of her annoyance.

Margaret finally blinked her unshed tears away as she swallowed thickly, her mouth suddenly dry. As if he knew, his eyes flickered to her lips, which had become equally dry and lingered there for a moment as she moistened them before returning to her eyes with more intensity than before and Margaret's heart skipped at the fire she saw burning there. Perhaps he had, felt some of the anger she had!

She directed her gaze lower to his throat and watched mesmerised as his Adam's Apple bobbed when he swallowed.

Despite nodding her forgiveness, her breathing seemed to have not realised that the fight was over, and her heart continued to race as she realised she was so close to him that she could smell his soft scent of soap. It threatened to beat right out of her chest as he brought a hand up to a long curl that had escaped from her plait and hung across her face and gently stroked it between his thumb and fingers. His gaze flickered to her lips once again and she knew, like she had that afternoon after Papa's funeral, that he wanted to kiss her. Heat flooded to her face and she knew she should probably move away to stop him yet suddenly her limbs felt tense and heavy and she did not want to move away from his smell. It was hard to breathe when so close to him and her breathing was deep and fast now that she was so acutely aware of their closeness and worried about what he might be about to do. It didn't help that she could see how deeply he too was breathing and she refused to look away from his penetrating gaze.

His hand moved to her neck, slightly cupping it as he traced along her jaw and Margaret forgot to breathe completely, aware that her eyes had widened to such an extent that she must look truly comical. Now was the time to move away but still she did not- frozen to the spot.

Then, without warning he sprang away from her as if burnt.

"Goodnight."

With no further explanation or apology, he turned from her, his gaze firmly back on the ceiling and his chest still heaving.

At first Margaret was relieved; without him so close, her breathing was less erratic, and the heat was leaving her cheeks. She had wanted their argument to be over- for her body to realise this- and yet she felt the cold slap of annoyance.

"Is that it?" She asked coldly, not knowing whether she was really talking about the argument.

"Do you want to argue further?" He asked, his voice equally as cold and eyes unmoving from their point of focus above him; his blasé attitude had returned with full force, which made Margaret's skin crawl and she clenched the cotton bed sheet beneath her hands in annoyance.

"I'm sorry. I will strive not to ignore you in future when you greet me from work." He added, some warmth creeping back into his tone despite his deliberate refusal to look at her.

"Don't worry. I will not do so again." She declared, exasperated. With that, she turned onto her side, blowing the candle out as she did so and facing away from him in the darkness. She drew the covers up around her neck, not caring that she was in very real danger of falling out of the bed at some point in the night, or that she had taken the majority of the blanket with her as she had turned.


	11. Chapter 11

Hello readers! I hope it was not too long a wait this time. This chapter annoyed me so much I literally re-wrote it three times and changed the whole thing. I just couldn't quite get the characterisation right, I felt. I think it is as close to what I wanted it to be as I can do, without spending a year on it. I hope you like it but it's ok if you don't. 😊 Thanks for reading.

Elle x

…

John had known as soon as he had treated her dismissively that he would live to regret it. Margaret had kept her word. In the two months since her aunt, cousin and, of course, Henry, had left, she had not run to greet him so again, or indeed really acknowledge his return from work at all and he had felt the pang of disappointment every time. No longer did he return to the house for luncheon, partly from necessity- time was in short supply at the mill, and partly because it hurt less to not have to deal with her constant distain in private and fake cheeriness in front of his mother and the maids.

He had been so angry with her that morning, so hurt, when she had flinched and withdrawn her hand from his touch as if burnt. It had been an entirely innocent act on his part and yet she had slighted him again. Unfairly, he had blamed her, his pride wounded by her rejection, despite the fact that he knew her action had been involuntary. When she had run to him, in front of her family like that, it had felt like she was mocking him- putting on a show like a child wanting to impress a parent. He knew all too well she would only push him away once again as soon as they were away from spectators, and he couldn't bear it. Like a child himself, he had cruelly wanted to make her feel what he had felt.

That evening, when he had apologised to her, he had nearly damned everything and kissed her, just to see what she's do. For one insane moment he had thought he had seen longing in her eyes, as if she wanted him to, but all too soon he had interpreted it for what it really was- fear. Thankfully, he had stopped himself, unable to bear the dread emanating from those blue orbs. Yet, for some incomprehensible reason she was still angry with him and they had barely spoken since. They had been civil of course, almost friendly at breakfast in front of his mother, but barely willing to acknowledge each other's presence at night. As time went on, he returned home later and later, partly through choice and partly through necessity, and each time he did, his 'wife' lay there in bed, her back turned towards him and the blankets clutched up to her neck, never displaying even a hint of anything lower. She was avoiding him as much as he was avoiding her.

Each morning he woke to find that she had not moved an inch in the night. Still she lay turned from him and would remain so until he had dressed and left the room, when she would wash and dress for the day and appear downstairs soon after. Since their wedding night, she had not asked him to help her undress and he had not offered. The sensible half of him was relieved and the other felt the absence of such trust like a stab to the heart. Of course, since he was arriving back so late, she was always already in bed before he returned, but never asleep. Somehow, he suspected it was not because of tiredness. Apparently, she no longer cared what the maids or his mother thought of the nature of their marriage.

In truth, he had not had an abundance of time to dwell too much on his deteriorating relationship with his wife, as the mill had demanded so much of his attention over the following weeks. Business was not improving as fast as he would have hoped. Although they were nearly up to date with their orders, many of his suppliers had not yet paid, and John knew there was trouble looming if they were not forthcoming soon. His only choice was to keep pushing through orders. Things would improve, they had to, but John knew he had a long way to go yet. To make matters worse, as November rolled around, winter had well and truly swept in and a penetrating chill had settled over Milton; production speed had inevitably decreased, with more and more of the hands were becoming too ill to work.

John raked a hand through his hair, wincing as pain shot through his shoulder, the mark of a blocked machine in the mill earlier in the week. He sighed as he looked at the mounting paperwork in front of him. Darkness had long closed in, unrelenting rain had truly taken over and the wind persistently whistled as it hurried past the windows, rattling the frames. Leaning back in his chair and glancing at the clock on his desk, John decided to admit defeat for the night and return home to face an entirely different challenge.

His mother would be waiting in the sitting room, he knew, but he did not want to see her and face her questions. She was starting to realise that there was something amiss between he and his wife and every evening asked whether something had happened between them. Every evening he fielded off her questions and went to his chamber in even more of a foul mood than when he left the mill.

That evening was no different. Wearily, he reassured the woman that her concerns were unfounded and trudged up the stairs to bed, opening the door of their bedchamber without knocking and entering to find the fire in the grate as usual but his bed undeniably empty. For a moment, John stopped and stared as if doing so would make the person he expected to see in her usual place, staring adamantly at the dressing table and no doubt plotting his demise. Of course, the space remained empty, and, baffled, John, pulling off his cravat, exited the room and returned down stairs, not caring that he was traipsing water across the carpet for the second time that night.

"Mother, where is Margaret?" He asked, bewilderment penetrating his words.

His mother, paused her sewing and looked up at him, pitying and confused.

"Is she not upstairs as usual? Hiding in her tower, rather than here waiting for your return, as she would if she had any sense of propriety?" She asked raising her eyebrows, her judgement seeping through. "As it happens I have not seen her all day."

Panic replaced his bewilderment and his blood ran cold as his mind went into overdrive. Would she have just left without any warning? Where could she have gone? Returned to London to be with her family perhaps? After all they were barely on speaking terms and if she felt as he did, then he could imagine she did not feel particularly kindly towards him. Had she had enough of their stilted conversations and fabricated civility? Did she suppose that this was what he had envisioned when he had proposed to her once again? Did she think he was happy either? He did not have the luxury to just leave with no warning, yet apparently, she felt she did!

His mother returned to her sewing and John felt his panic turn to anger, with Margaret, with his Mother and her nonchalance and doubting, and with the whole situation.

"You have not seen her all day and yet you did not think it prudent to check on her?" He interrogated, his voice rising. It was the first time he had felt this angry with his mother and the look of annoyed disappointment she shot him made him feel instantly guilty for his tone.

"It is not unusual for your wife to choose to go out all day to who knows where and return without a word to me, so why should I have thought that today would be any different? I am not married to her; I cannot stop her from choosing to visit those people she so sympathises with…"

He did not need to hear his mother's words to know where she was likely to be- at the Higgins' household, helping with the Boucher children. He knew that was where she went all day, for he had seen her leaving from his window every morning since they had argued the day after their wedding, but he had no idea when she usually returned as by then he was supervising the workers. Despite his unease he had tried to be tolerant. The thought of her visiting their alone did not sit well with him but he had remained silent on the subject, knowing that asking her not to go alone would be futile. Her stubbornness was often intolerable, and he knew that without a doubt she would continue to go anyway so why ruin the shred of politeness that still existed between them. Still, surely, she was not stupid enough to be there at this time of night? Alone at this time of night? A glance at the grandfather clock confirmed it was approaching ten o'clock and the streetlamps had nearly all been extinguished. No, she would have known it was unwise to remain in the Princeton District or out in a city alone at this time of night. Why would she have done it anyway? Surely, she would stay at Nicolas' house and not attempt to walk back alone in the darkness in this weather?

Without thinking through what exactly his plan was, he turned his back to his mother and strode from the room, ignoring the rustle of skirts that told him she had discarded her sewing and was following behind him.

"Don't be rash, John. She is young and impulsive, but she is not stupid. She will be somewhere she sees as safe for the night. I am sure she knows what she is doing…" His mother cried at him, her voice becoming more and more shrill with each word as he grabbed his coat from the hallway and threw it on, barely hearing her protestations above the sound of his own heart thundering.

He ripped the front door open, sending the door knob crashing into the hallway wall and stepped out into the raging wind, the rain biting at his exposed flesh.

"John!" His mother's cry echoed in the deserted courtyard, despite the cacophony of sound already dominating the space. Violently, John burst through the mill gates, leaving them flapping open in the wind behind him.

The Princeton District was on the other side of the empty town, and past the church and grave yard where Mr and Mrs Hale were buried. Many of the street lamps had burnt out, plunging much of the streets into darkness, only illuminated by the occasional crash of lightning.

Battling through the raging elements, John struggled towards the church finally looming in the distance, the headstones filling the graveyard, jutting up intermittently inside the small stone walls. From this point at the top of the hill, he could just make out the shadows of the jumbled buildings below and hurried in the direction of his target.

Barely audible above a crackle of thunder a startled cry emanating from behind him, somewhere inside the grave yard sent a shiver straight to his heart. He turned, breaking into a run. He dashed through the open gate, dodging headstones as he went, searching for the source of distress.

On the other side of the grave yard two figures stood huddled beside a third smaller shadow. They swayed a little as they moved closer to the smaller figure, muttering something indistinguishable, their voices oddly blurred.

"Let me go!" Her voice carried on the wind, annoyance and indignance seeping through as one of the larger figures reached out towards her. Defensively, she tried to spring back.

As he ran closer, he could make out two men, in dishevelled clothing. One of them was mumbling incoherently and grasping onto Margaret's arm, whose face had adopted a concerned expression. The unmistakable and overwhelming scent of alcohol carried on the wind with each new rambling. John did not attempt to understand what was said, roughly seizing the arm that was grasping his wife and shoving the owner of the arm backwards, sending him flying to the ground.

"John!" She shrieked, disapproval lacing her voice.

Dazed the man tried to stand, the other, more in control of his sense, grappling to help him up. John moved towards them, his fists clenched, and one raised, ready to strike.

"John, don't! They're drunk and can't defend themselves."

Her plea stopped him delivering the blow he felt was necessary to teach them a lesson. Not so inebriated that they could not tell when danger was about to assail them, without waiting to see whether he would listen, they scurried away, cursing loudly as they did so.

For a long moment, he and Margaret stared at each other, neither speaking. The fission of tension created by mutual anger, as the rain continued to fall around them, rooted them to the spot.

"What the hell are you doing out here at this time of night?" His question bubbled over. He was shouting to be heard over the incessant splatter of rain ricocheting from the cobbled path, blood still pounding in his ears.

She frowned at his question and agitatedly swiped dripping water from her face as it ran down her forehead. Her hair was damp and curling more than usual as it tried, under the influence of the wind and rain, to escape from its ties.

"I could ask you the same thing!" she spat back, shooting daggers at him.

Incensed by her avoidance, John's scowl deepened.

Impatiently, he waited for her answer, noting the way her forehead scrunched as it did when she was trying to think quickly. Then, turning on her heel, she walked away from him towards the sheltered church doorway without an explanation.

"Margaret!" He demanded, refusing to let her avoid the question and storming after her. The wooden shelter was not the widest of spaces, a simple wooden covering over the door, but John squeezed in besides his wife regardless. Pleased that it would be impossible for her to avoid his question now, he looked down at her as she scrunched her dishevelled hair in her hands to drain some of the excess water.

"What were you thinking walking alone at this time of night in the middle of a storm?!"

For a moment he thought she did not intend to answer again. Her mouth was set in a defensive line and she continued to ring out her hair and then clothing as if she had not heard him.

"Margaret!" he bellowed at her, his temper flaring dangerously. Wincing, he rubbed his shoulder, suddenly aware of how tender it was, no doubt it had been worsened as a result of his violent temper.

Her eyes narrowed a little, clearly angry at being unable to avoid the question any longer.

"I went to visit Mary Higgins and the Boucher children. I often fill my time by visiting them and lost track of how late it was getting." She bellowed back, meeting him blow for blow. Still, behind her anger, the waiver in her voice and the way her eyes darted around her, wide and concerned, gave away her doubt.

Having finally had an answer, although in his opinion an unacceptable one, he was tired, the fight was leaving him and the adrenaline wearing off. He rubbed his temples wearily, droplets of water coming away with his hand when he lowered it.

"Just think of what could have happened if I hadn't have arrived when I did!"

"Nothing was going to happen." She responded quickly, her voice harsh as if he had made a ridiculous suggestion.

"Are you really that naive, Margaret?" he asked, his eyes shooting pins at her face.

Quietly, she tried to justify herself, "They had just been drinking and did not know what they were doing. They weren't going to hurt me, John." As she met his gaze, he recognised the way her chin was jugging forward in defiance as an attempt to make him feel his worry was unnecessary, but her voice had adopted a pleading quality.

"Besides, why should you care? We have barely spoken in weeks and you cannot stand to be near me!" Her voice had instantly adopted an accusatory tone to replace the guilty one. John flinched as if stung and studied her intently, listening to the continuing pitter-patter of rain. The first part was true, of course, but it was not that he could not stand to be near her. He longed to be extremely near her every waking moment, though not in the way she meant.

When he finally answered, it was no louder than a whisper.

"You don't really believe that. I know you don't." Her eyes flickered a little to glance at him before they snapped away and she folded her arms against her body as if to create a barrier between them, affirming his surmising. Apparently, that was the only response he was to receive, which only served to infuriate him further.

"My mother informed me of where you have been going to everyday, though I already knew, and I have kept quiet, but can you not at least be responsible and return home in the light?" It was cold and harsh with none of the sensitivity of his previous statement. Sensing his annoyance, her eyes snapped back to his at that and a fire burned there that made him gulp and tilt his body as far back from her as the small space would allow.

"You have 'kept quiet' certainly, yet you judge me none the less? And what would _you_ have me do all day? I have nothing to discuss with your mother and she sneers at any suggestion of my helping with the housework..." The arms were unfolded now as she had used them to gesticulate wildly as she spoke, barely waiting for him to finish his sentence before snapping them back across her body.

John considered her for a moment remembering his mother's lack of interest in his wife's whereabouts.

"Is she unkind to you?" he asked, his voice still harsh.

Margaret shook her head, resentment crossing her face.

"No, she is perfectly civil, but she disapproves of me, as you well know, and we have nothing in common. We understand each other now but just because we are married does not mean that I am going to magically rise in her esteem."

John was unsure what to say to that. He knew his mother well enough to realise that she would not go out of her way to make Margaret feel welcome in private, though her loyalty to him made her act as though she wanted to in public.

"I'll speak to my mother."

"No." She replied quickly in horror, her arms dropping to her side.

"Then, what would you have me do?" He asked sincerely, despite the frustration evident in his voice.

"You promised me a partnership, yet it appears to me that your life has barely been affected by this whole situation, while mine had been thrown into turmoil and left me with an abundance of time to sit and dwell on how lonely I am without any family or anyone on my side and judgement from those around me."

"I am sorry, you feel that way," was all he could think to say. He didn't think it was particularly fair for her to insist that his life was unchanged. Her other statement was right, of course. He had said all she claimed.

"I could be of help, with the mill. Is there not something I can do to help improve the lot of the workers?"

His heart dropped a little at her words. Apparently, her obsession with the rights of his workforce had not dimmed, and she had remembered the one part of their agreement he was struggling to fulfil. He could not deny her wish, since he had promised that very thing, and yet the shame of her knowing how much of a struggle managing the mill's finances had become would be too much to bear. The troubles would pass, of course, but not quickly and he had not even told his mother of just how behind in the bank payments they had become. He had truly been planning something he knew Margaret would love, but the dire state of the mill's finances had halted such plans and they had actually been all but discarded. Yet if she had something to occupy her time, perhaps she would stop visiting places where she was likely to find herself in trouble.

After seeing the desperation in her eyes, his anger cracked and without considering the financial repercussions he spoke, "I have been speaking with Nicholas about opening a kitchen for the workers, a way to 'improve their lot' as you call it, whilst also improving productivity. Now that winter has set in, so many are off too ill to work, and I fear some of the problem is that they are not well fed, and their bodies are unable to battle the cold as a result."

"You intend to feed them from your own pocket?" she asked disbelieving.

"I am not doing it out of kindness, Margaret!" he clarified, infuriated at her constant wish for him to help the workers out of the goodness of his heart, when as an employer that would help neither they or he.

"Production has slowed with the winter drawing closer. I hope it can increase productivity and lessen the number of workers becoming too ill to work over the winter months." She was watching him sceptically as he tried to stress the practicalities.

"Surely, you care a little for their health and not just about the benefits for business? You cannot be unaffected by the plight of those poor starving children?" she asked incredulous, and he rolled his eyes a little at her persistence. How was it that even when he had given her something she knew she wanted, she felt the need to push him and push him to make it all seem as though it was for her purposes?

"It does not give me pleasure to see anyone's suffering, but that is not the reason for my proposal." He stated firmly. "Perhaps you could help Nicholas to sort out the logistics and find someone to cook in the kitchen?"

Still she regarded him for some time, her eyes narrowed as she appraised him, and he was beginning to feel extremely self-conscious at just how ridiculous he must look with rain still dripping from his soaked hair onto his clothing, when she finally nodded her assent a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"In return, please promise me you won't stay out so late as to find yourself walking home alone, in the dark at ten o'clock at night, Margaret!" He added, gesturing around him at the chaos in the darkness.

Looking slightly bashful, she nodded again. Lightning flashed around them, illuminating the dark headstones and they both jumped. His eyes returned to her face as hers hurriedly moved to sweep the graves, her teeth biting her lower lip, displaying her worry, her pale skin contrasting prettily with the raven darkness of her gown. Even when utterly soaked from head to foot with her hair falling haphazardly from its pins she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he was reminded of what he already knew, that no matter how much time passed and no matter how long he stayed away from her, she only unwillingly made him fall more in love with her than ever. Somehow, when she was the one who had behaved unfairly, he was the one who had bended his finances if not his will to give her what she wanted. At least they were talking now. If only they could get through an entire day without shutting off their channels of communication, they might even be able to live in relative harmony with each other.

Sighing, he tried to distract himself from the small flush that had risen to her cheeks.

Scoffing at himself his self-deprecation managed to leak through into his words as he admitted, "I thought you might have left me, when I found you gone."

Her eyes remained trained on the spot she was carefully studying, where he knew her parents lay, but her eyelids flickered slightly. Slowly, she shook her head, her teeth still worrying her bottom lip.

If he was hoping for her to reassure him that she would never leave, it seemed he was not going to get it. John's, eyes snapped to her hands, which she was rubbing together to warm up, focussing for a moment on the spot where under normal circumstances a wedding ring would sit. Of course, as a gentleman and particularly one involved in trade he was not expected to wear a ring at all, but he would have liked her to have worn one. Perhaps she would have if he had asked her, but her abhorrence of his first proposal and her suggestion that he wanted to possess her had prevented him from asking her to wear one, knowing she was likely to think he wished to mark her as his. In truth, he did wish to mark her as his, but not his possession, he wanted her to want people to know she belonged with him, not to him- even if that was only in friendship. He could not ask her- perhaps one day he would but she was not ready for it and would undoubtedly reject the suggestion.

Looking around him as the rain fell, he was struck by the absurdity of having argued in a church yard at close to midnight and turned back to the woman next to him, with curiosity.

"What were you doing in the church yard exactly?" He asked.

She sighed, her chest rising and falling as a sadness filled her posture.

"I was walking home when I felt so completely alone that I wanted to visit the last tie to my parents. The darkness and rain didn't seem particularly important." Margaret dropped her gaze to her cold, red hands as she continued to rub them together in attempt to warm them.

His heart hurt a little at her words and the droplets of rain that clung to her dark eyelashes distracted his attention again. Her eyes were glistening but whether it was from the rain or unshed tears, he could not tell.

"Perhaps we could visit them together sometimes." He suggested. Smiling softly, she nodded.

It could have been his imagination but as another crack of thunder roared above them, he was sure she was beginning to lean into him and as he caught the smell of lilac, still evident despite the rain dampening everything. His thoughts turned to how she had let him hold her to him here once before; his arms ached to find their way around her waist and pull her into him. How easy it would be, and in her gratitude and worry she might even let him.

Ashamed, John had to force himself to look away from her, for fear that his foolish feelings and inability to control himself would ruin the work they had barely begun to mend their fractured friendship.

She shivered dramatically as a particularly violent gust of wind whipped around them and John came to his senses. It was pointless to wait for a storm like this to pass; it would not for hours yet. As matter of factly as he could, he grasped her arms, running his hands up and down them in the hope that the friction would warn them a little. His mother would still be awake and waiting for them to return and although he was still angry at her for her lack of empathy, he did not wish to punish her further. Checking up at the sky once, he grabbed his wife's hand, warming it with his own and pulled her out from under the shelter, pushing the throbbing in his shoulder from his mind as much as he could, and together they began to run through the rain.

…

By the time they reached the gates of Marlborough Mills, both Margaret and John were out of breath, once again soaked through to the skin, and struggling to keep running towards the safety and warmth of the house.

He had promised her she could help him in feeding the workers and no matter how hard he argued that it did not stem from kindness, she knew it was there behind all his business sense. Perhaps it was because of his promise to her tonight- or more likely how cold she felt, having now been out in a torrential downpour for at least an hour, that she found herself gravitating towards his physical warmth. He was tentative in his actions and for that she was grateful, but his arm had gradually made its way around her waist as they ran together; his height was angled towards her so as to shelter her from some of the downpour and instinctively she leaned into his protective stance, not stopping him from pulling her a fraction closer. The heat from his hand imprinted on her side, through the material of her corset where it rested. Despite the ferocity of the rain, the atmosphere between them was no longer frosty but it still held a heaviness. They had barely spoken, too focussed on getting home and with nothing more to say, yet he had asked her whether she was alright at numerous points throughout their journey and she was feeling considerably for favourable towards him. Instead of clinging to her anger at his treatment of the men who had been too blind drunk to know what they were doing and his chastisement of her, she felt kindlier towards him than she had done since their wedding day.

Dripping wet, both fell through the front door and squeezed into the dark entrance hall. Margaret's heavy skirt created a waterfall effect on the wooden floor as a cascade fell from the hem of her petticoats and she cringed as she thought of her mother-in-law's likely reaction to her reckless behaviour.

Mrs Thornton was standing in the sitting room and had clearly been waiting for their return. Silent and disapproving, she held her head night but refrained from speaking.

"I am sorry for worrying you, Hannah. I lost track of the time." Margaret apologised sincerely, prior experience telling her it was better to apologise now and hope for the best. She would never admit it to John, but her experience this evening had scared her enough for her to be able to see that walking home alone at that hour had not been her finest idea.

Margaret waited for the reprimand she knew she probably deserved, but it never came. Instead, her mother-in-law's gaze was focussed on her son's hand grasping Margaret's waist. The urge to keep up the pretence in front of the woman was so ingrained that Margaret tried to act as though she barely noticed what Hannah was focused on or, indeed, that fact that his hand was there at all. In the absence of any verbal response, she bid the woman goodnight, relieved when the sentiment was quickly reciprocated and climbed the stairs towards their chamber, noting the absence of heat on her side as he withdrew his hand and waited to speak to his mother.

"Be careful, John!" was the only thing she heard Mrs Thornton say, before her husband, bid her goodnight, without acknowledging the comment, and the speed of his footfall on the stairs implied he was eager not to have to comment on it at all. Margaret had no idea what John was supposed to be careful about, but she suspected it was likely to be aimed in some way at her, in which case she did not wish to know.

The glow of the fire Martha had lit in their chamber, flickered, caressing parts of the room, coating the space with a warm golden glow. It created a stark contrast with the thundering rage outside and the bullets pelting the window behind the bed and for the first time in this house, Margaret thought how good it was to be home.

John cross the room to close curtains and shut the storm out and Margaret found herself looking at him more closely than she had in a long time. He looked tired and dishevelled and somehow softer than she had remembered. Physically softer as well as emotionally. No, no matter how he tried to deny it, Margaret knew in her very soul that his plan to give the workers food was about more than productivity. It had to be. The man she had thought he was would have not cared who did the work, only that it was done and with man men out of work in the aftermath of the strike, he could find other men in need of work if he wanted to. He wanted to help them as much as he wanted to help the mill; Margaret knew it and would not be persuaded by all his protestations.

"Come, you'll catch your death of a cold, if you don't change into something dry!" he declared, and Margaret jumped a little at having been caught standing doing nothing in the doorway.

He was right, the cold had crept into her bones and she could not stop shivering despite the heat from the fire. It was the first time they had really undressed in the same room together since the night of their wedding, and Margaret was momentarily panicked at the thought of changing in front of him again.

Still, regardless of her discomfort, Margaret could not very well stand in her wet garments any longer. Her gown, thankfully, was fastened with small buttons down its front and Margaret was able to turn from him to face the fireplace and carefully unbutton it without needing to ask for help or show skin to the man across from her. Sneaking a glance over her shoulder, she could tell that he had removed his jacket and cravat and although turned away from her, was working on the buttons on the front of his shirt.

For a moment, he paused and glanced over his shoulder to her. They both blushed as they realised they had gone as far as they could without waiting for the other to undress or being completely immodest.

Margaret sighed. It was ridiculous to go on as they had. That first night, it had broken the ice when they had put their embarrassment aside and just got on with it, so, summoning her courage, Margaret slipped her arms from her dress and grasping the material which pooled at her hips, forced the skirt over her to the floor before stepping out of it. Despite the mortification of a man seeing her in her undergarments, at least they were particularly pretty ones- white with delicate flowered patterning in baby blue. Although damp and cold and making her shiver, they were less see-through than they could have been, which Margaret was innumerably grateful for.

As she had removed her dress, John had not even pretended to look away, his eyes roaming quickly over her body. Intertwined with total mortification, Margaret, absurdly, felt a flicker of satisfaction that he wanted to stare at her. Self-consciousness soon took over and she drew her arms around her waist, willing him to look away but he didn't seem to be able to.

Finally, his eyes swept over her once more before he seemed to notice her embarrassment and he gulped, his Adam's Apple bobbing violently before he looked away. Turned from her, he seemed to be gathering his own courage as his hands gripped the bottom of his shirt tightly. He inhaled deeply and drew it over his head and left it to pool beside him on the floor. Curious, she watched his actions as she pretended to be concerned with turning the blankets down on the bed, rather than do the decent thing and turn completely away. She had never seen a man's back before, not even her father's or brother's and she could not help but study it, despite the very real danger that he knew she was staring as he had.

Carefully, he hung his jacket on a clothes hook that had been resting on the chest at the end of the bed and his cravat with it and Margaret silently watched as the muscles in his back contracted with each movement. After placing them in the wardrobe where her journal and her Papa's books were hidden, he met her gaze, close enough to reach his arms out and touch her now, and for a moment they stared at each other, Margaret trying with all her might to keep her eyes on his face, rather than looking down at his broad chest.

To her annoyance, she could not do it, and they flickered down to the hard panes of his chest. Instantly, she knew it been a mistake. It was too intimate and intrusive and not part of their agreement. It had been clear what would and would not happen between them and all at once those lines had been blurred and her nerves rattled. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt against her ribcage as her eyes roamed over his body curiously, knowing she shouldn't and that it had been a mistake to let him do the same to her. His shoulders were not as broad as she had expected, but there was still a defined layer of muscle and as they swept across his shoulder, her eyes lingered on a deep purple bruise just below his collar bone. It was an alarming shade of purple and flecked with dried blood from an angry, red cut in the centre. When had he gotten that? Had anyone attended to it? Certainly not her, which made her stomach squirm uncomfortably.

Wordlessly, she reached out a hand to his collar bone to touch it, trying not to pay attention to his expression or how his mouth gaped at her shaking touch as she tenderly brushed her fingers over the flaming skin. His flesh was still cold from the water which had soaked through his shirt, and rough from whatever trauma had assailed it.

Sharply he inhaled as she tenderly touched a spot close to the cut and Margaret quickly withdrew her hand away from it to a spot closer to his shoulder, where she could feel the hard muscles beneath his skin. As if it would somehow ease his pain, with trembling fingers she traced the fading line of colour where it was starting to heal by his collar bone, and where his Adam's Apple bobbed as he swallowed deeply. Her eyes roamed over the rest of his chest to his collar bone and across to the muscles at the top of his arm and down, her hand following with feather light touches that made her stomach flutter. His eyes fluttered closed as he swallowed thickly, the sound echoing above the rage of the storm, and as she placed a hand on his chest to feel his heart hammer against her palm, he shuddered under her touch, his breath ragged and uneven.

Then he was touching her in return- Mr Thornton- John- the man she had married to escape from a worse fate- his own caress so delicate it was almost painful as the pads of his fingers stroking down her arms as he mirrored her actions and she shivered at the foreign intimacy. Caught up in the moment, she had forgotten to breathe completely, and now that she remembered she needed to, she couldn't seem to work out how; her chest rose and fell as she tried to take in enough air and dizziness gripped her as it had on their wedding night. This time, though she did not run from it- could not run from it. Involuntarily, she allowed her eyes to close and shut out his scrutiny as his touch reached her wrist and as he so tenderly swept his hand across the inside of her arm, she was helpless to stop a whimper from passing her lips at the sensation.

Suddenly, all the embarrassment she should have felt all along returned and her still shaking hands faltered. Then dropped to her side.

"John, I…" she stammered, her voice shaking, and her eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal, but her mind could not form a coherent explanation quick enough and she stepped back, distancing herself from his heat, desperate to retreat. Horrified, she stared down at her state of undress and back to John, her heart still screaming at her against her rib cage as if trying to break free of its prison.

"I'm…" she started again, still failing to get across her incoherent thoughts, that begged to form an apology.

"Please don't say it." He pleaded, his own voice horse and his eyes desperate as they bored into hers and she knew he had understood that she was trying to apologise, to take it all back.

As if to silence her, he reached out to grasp her waist with both hands and pulled her close- not completely flush against him, allowing her to bury her face against his bruised chest as one hand held her waist firmly and the other continued to trace the faintest of patterns onto the skin of her arm. For a moment, her limbs were frozen, completely powerless to move, but when she had caught her breath, she tentatively rested her cheek against the smooth skin of his chest, feeling him shiver again and release a shuddering breath against the top of her head. That same smell of soap mixed with sandalwood infiltrated her senses and her heart fluttered at the intimacy of recognising something so personal. Against her flaming cheek, his heart raced loudly, and she closed her eyes to focus on the sound. Her small hands tentatively made their way around his body, wanting to reciprocate the comfort she knew he was trying to give her. Clinging to him, she softly placed her hands against his back.

His soft caress continued as he leaned his head down to softly kiss the top of her head, pausing for a moment to bury his face into her hair, breathing her in.

Suddenly, he stilled.

Without warning, the hand that had been tracing her arm was in her hair as he kissed her temple, more urgently and yet more tender than her head, the other hand splayed on her lower back as he pulled her lower body flush against his. Instinctively, her hand made its way up to his neck and he released a deep groan as her fingers laced into his hair to grip him to her. His lips traced a path down from her temple to her cheek, then jaw and lingered at her neck, making her gasp each time they made contact with her exposed skin. Her legs had begun shaking and she grasped his elbows tightly to stop herself from falling over, vaguely aware that her finger nails must be piercing his arms. Again, and again, he placed small kisses at the top of her neck, just below her ear and Margaret's heart fluttered more each time, making her feel funny, and she froze, her head spinning as she both wished he would stop and became more and more convinced that her heart would break if he did.

To her dismay, he stopped, bringing his forehead to rest against hers and releasing a shuddering breath. Margaret's heart felt surprisingly cold and empty at the loss of contact, though her skin burned in all the places where his lips had been as if scarred.

"Do you want me to stop?" He asked shakily.

Margaret had no idea what she wanted him to do! Her mind was so in turmoil that she didn't even know what answer he wanted her to give. For a moment, she paused, trying to control her breathing and get her mind to focus on what her was asking her. Slowly, her mind started to clear, and embarrassment crept back in. She did want him to stop, didn't she? Her mind did, but her skin seemed to want something different entirely. Everything was a muddle. What on earth had possessed her to start whatever they were falling towards in the first place? She honestly hadn't meant to and couldn't understand how it had happened.

She knew what her answer needed to be and knew that he was going to hate her all over again.

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly before voicing what she wished.

"Perhaps we should go to sleep?" She phrased it as a question, but, despite the crack in her voice, her tone implied a statement.

After a moment, she heard him swallow and felt him nod against her. Without a word he released her waist and walked away, to a basin of water on a dresser, taking a flannel to clean his wound. Margaret collapsed onto the edge of the bed, bringing a hand to her chest as she struggled to swallow her fears and odd disappointment in herself. Shaking her head a little she looked around the room at the discarded clothes on the floor and blushed at the impropriety of it all. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she finally forced her still shaking hands to release her escaping hair from the few pins that had held on, despite the weather and John's fingers raking through it. In the mirror, she saw her face flushed at the memory sighed at the loss of the feeling that came with the memory.

When all of them were released, he still had not spoken or acknowledged her at all, and Margaret was starting to panic. Without a doubt, he was going to hate her now more than ever. They were just beginning to mend that broken glass thread between them and now because of her inability to behave like a normal person with propriety and decency, she had crushed it again.

She wanted to make it right, no matter what it took.

"John?" She asked tentatively.

"Hmm." He replied, and relief flooded over her.

"Please don't be angry with me." She whispered.

"I'm not."

Finally, he turned, composed, other than the slightly red tinge to his eyes, probably from lack of sleep. Wringing her hands nervously, Margaret waited, wondering whether he would refuse to help her undo her corset and what she would do if he did.

"John, I can't get this undone alone."

To her relief, he did not refuse, simply nodding and moving his hands back to her waist to turn her around and begin work on the laces. His worked faster the second time around, with an idea of how to do it but his hands still shook a little, making her heart leap strangely.

This time, he turned from her as she quickly removed her remaining clothes, giving her privacy to change into her night gown and climb under the covers. She afforded him the same courtesy, screwing her eyes tightly shut, so as to make it obvious to him that she was not looking, as if it would make up for her mistake earlier. He climbed into bed beside her and she did not turn from him as she had done for the last month.

The fire had not yet extinguished, though it was beginning to crackle and dim, and they both watched the shadows it cast onto the high ceiling.

Now that the room as silent except for the now steady patter of rain on the window pane and soft crackle of the fire, Margaret tried to make sense of what had just happened. She knew one thing for sure- she was a terrible person. What else could have possessed her to behave as she had and be so completely unfair to John, and to herself? What on earth had made her cross the boundaries they had so carefully constructed between them? She had been so angry at him for weeks, so angry that she had visited her parents' graves despite the time, paying him no heed at all. Was that what had made her do it? Was it revenge for the crushing sadness she had felt?

Well, what had possessed him? He knew how she felt, he knew the terms she had agreed to in marrying him! Yet to think that she had let him do those things to her- had, if she was being completely honest with herself, encouraged him by starting it! She had truly never considered that anyone would ever do that to her, even when she had contemplated the concept of marriage and the act necessary to have children.

What on earth would her parents say if they knew? What would Edith say? She blushed as the reality that Edith believed she had already let John do far more to her than that hit her.

Thinking about it was beginning to make her head hurt and her cheeks burn. Frustrated, she shook her head and buried her face in her hands, rubbing her temples.

Everything in her was begging her to apologise, to try and explain herself but his words as he had begged her not to stopped her. She chanced a quick glance towards his hardly moving figure. Still he faced the ceiling, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

No, she needed to forget about it and not let it happen again. She needed to move on and work with Nicholas to make the kitchen for the workers a success. She had already decided that Mary should help her, and she could hardly wait to tell her tomorrow. The relief she felt at finally having something to do did not quite outweigh the shame of what had happened between them, but it certainly softened it.

"Are you angry at _me_?"

It took her a minute to realise he was talking to her. So, caught up in her own thoughts, she nearly didn't register at all, only shaking her head when she finally comprehended his question.

"If I bought you a wedding ring, would you wear it?" He directed his question to the ceiling and again Margaret nearly didn't register what he was saying at all. His question surprised her. She had truly not given much thought to the fact that she did not wear a wedding ring, but as she looked down at the finger where one should sit, it did seem rather odd not to do so. Had they discussed one before? She didn't think so. Perhaps she should wear one; it would certainly help to keep the true nature of their marriage hidden from public view, she supposed. Why on earth would he have thought to ask that when she was still barely able to think properly.

"Do you want me to wear one?" She asked, allowing her confusion to show.

"I understand if you don't want to." He answered, his voice a little quieter.

She assumed that meant he did want her to. Of course, it might be nice to have something to show off when Fanny visited and paraded the numerous jewellery items Watson had bought her. Equally, if Edith visited as she had promised she would, she would be extremely pleased to see she had one.

Yet, as she truly thought through his trail of thought, she could not help but think that his question was somehow not about a ring at all. She had a suspicion it truly had something to do with the way she had clung to him and he had kissed her neck, which made her want to instantly say no. But her true answer certainly wasn't about wearing a ring either- not really. Regardless of their unconventional marriage she was upset that he had been hurt and not told her. She could have cleaned it for him and yet he had not even mentioned it. She wanted him to trust her enough- to know she meant her side of the bargain too- that she wasn't going to leave him.

"Did you tell your mother, you had been hurt?" She asked, her voice demanding.

"No." He answered simply, without pausing to think about it and she knew he was telling the truth.

"I want to wear one." She uttered quietly to the ceiling, shocking herself a little, with her answer. He did not respond, but his release of breath confirmed she had given the response he had sought.

Margaret's eyes were beginning to close to quell the ache in her head and, tired of dealing with her scattered thoughts, she didn't want to fight sleep any longer. Unable to bear seeing him any longer, reminding her of all that had transpired between them and could not be taken back, she turned onto her side to face away from him and closed her eyes.

"Goodnight, John." She whispered.

For a moment he did not answer, and she knew he was debating on saying something else, but then she felt his body turn away from her as he whispered back, "Goodnight, Margaret."

Together and yet some distance apart, they watched the patterns cast onto the walls by the ever-dimming light until finally, the fire spluttered and died and the darkness won, and Margaret surrendered to it.


	12. Chapter 12

Dear readers, apologies for the longer wait again but this chapter was also a little problematic as I had almost written the next one but needed a filler chapter to give some important details. Thank you for the well wishes, I am so much better now, and I hope to get the next chapter to you just after Christmas. It is nearly written and much more important, perhaps, to the progression of the story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one.

Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter- I always love reading them and am glad you guys are still enjoying it. Your reviews are so kind and often make my day!

I agree with the reviewer who said that Margaret can be frustrating and needs to grow up so, thank you for taking the time to review and I thought I'd explain some of my thinking behind my version of her. I feel at numerous points in the book I wish she'd just grow up- in fact there are many moments where I think she is downright unlikeable- but then I think all 19 year olds need to grow up. How many people that age do you know with Margaret's disposition and no experience of men who would suddenly be emotionally mature about it? Even with all the head strong and silly things she does in this story, I still think she is more mature than most 19 year olds I've met. I also think Margaret is particularly sheltered- partly due to the time period and partly due to her family. I was Margaret's age when I got married and nowhere near as sheltered, but I was still an idiot then, and I knew for sure I was, and still am, in love with my husband so why would Margaret be mature about it? Perhaps this is why I forgive Margaret's immaturity and love her anyway, but I understand your opinion. She'll get there. I would say more on this (the story to come- not me) but then I'd give too much away about the next few chapters. :P

Please do keep reviewing to let me know your thoughts. It is, of course, the best feeling when you have positive comments, but even if you don't like a choice I've made, I enjoy evaluating why I've made that decision and am happy you keep reading.

Enjoy!

Merry Christmas. Elle. X

…

Waking up next to a woman he had so intimately held the night before, unsure whether she was likely to hate him for his administrations, was a new experience for him- as was sleeping through the night undisturbed. For the first time since his wedding, he had not been kept awake with torturous thoughts about the state of the mill or his marriage, and instead his body had, for once, succumbed to the necessity for sleep for the entirety of the night. His mind had not entirely agreed, and he was vaguely aware that he had dreamed, but was unable to remember what exactly it had been about. At some point in his sleep, he must have relaxed enough to allow his body to turn, for when he begrudgingly opened his protesting eyes, he was greeted by the sight of chestnut hair on the pillow beside him. Margaret too had turned, and her body was curled towards him, the blankets clutched tightly to her chin and her face level with his own.

Slowly, her eyes, opened and closed as she became use to the dull light infiltrating the room. She caught sight of him watching her and blinked slowly, her gaze shifting to the covers around her. The gradual realisation settling on her face implied the events of last night were ordering themselves in her mind and he could almost see the cogs of her brain turning over them critically.

The pain of the rejection he had faced the last time they had found themselves in a similar position (and yet not similar at all) still stung and he waited for regret to cross her features, and her inevitable physical retreat. Yet it did not come. Her mind was still whirling with her confused thoughts, they were visible behind her slightly clouded eyes, which remained lowered, but she did not move away.

"Good morning," he said softly, his voice (gruff from lack of use) breaking the stillness of the room, when he could bare the silence no longer.

At the sound of his greeting, her thoughts seemed to cease, and her eyes returned to his face, her brow creasing.

Finally, she formed a reply. "Good morning." Her voice was crystal clear in contrast to his rasp.

Then she smiled.

The lingering worries that had gripped his heart about all that had transpired between them just hours before, melted away in the rays of her shy smile that lingered even as she re-lowered her eyes and nibbled her lower lip nervously. It was that smile that had secured his decision to spend the first Saturday since his wedding day parted from the mill and instead in the company of his wife; his reward had been its re-occurrence. Both had dressed self-consciously on opposite sides of the room and he had scuttled out as soon as he was dressed to fetch Martha to help her finish dressing. It seemed ridiculous to avoid each other so after all that had happened between them, but in the cold light of day the concept of seeing each other so scantily clad seemed entirely different and he could sense her reluctance.

His mother's eyebrows had practically disappeared into her hairline as they had entered the dining room together for breakfast, no earlier than 8am, though she had made no comment on the matter. The lack of his presence at the mill, however, she did comment on, as well as expressing her surprise that he should have the inclination to visit town that morning. She had remained uncharacteristically quiet when he had informed her that they intended to purchase a wedding ring. Margaret, too, had kept quiet, but he had noticed her intermittently taking quick glances in his direction as if concerned that his good mood might evaporate at any moment. The action had continued into their walk to town, which although quiet, neither knowing what to say to the other, was companionable rather than painfully awkward.

Thankfully, once they reached town, their mutual goal had encouraged conversation, and, greeted by a plethora of different style rings, Margaret had expressed a preference for a modestly priced style of band and setting, quickly rebuffing the jeweller's encouragement towards a variety of much more expensive and elaborate options. Many of those had momentarily made him sweat as he gaped at the price and he could not help but love her more for her firm declaration that she found those options to not be to her taste. She had asked him to pick one for her, which he had quickly tried to avoid, having no idea what sort of thing ladies, and particularly the one he had married, would want. Insistent, she had pointed out three that appealed to her, and asked him to select one from those. After an obscene amount of time going backwards and forwards between the three choices alone in the shop, he had chosen the one that now sat possessively on her finger for its largest stone's likeness to the sparkling blue eyes that could captivate him so.

The look of uncensored happiness that had crossed her face as he had carefully slipped it on confirmed that he had made the right choice. Since they had stepped out from the jewellers, she had played with it, pushing it around as they walked and examining it as if it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and, John had fought hard to resist the urge to declare how much he loved her for wearing it. If he did, she would almost certainly believe he was trying to control her and refuse to.

Last night had filled him with a cascade of hope that he had never allowed himself to feel before. It was foolish to believe that she was in any danger of falling in love with him- he knew that. He was not so blinded by his want for her that he believed that her administrations as they had undressed had stemmed from anything other than curiosity, but he could not silence the voice that tried to convince him that, for at least a few seconds, she had trembled at his touch in a way that had nothing to do with fear. If only for those few seconds, he had been so sure that she hadn't really wanted him to stop. He so desperately wanted it to be true that his mind fought to push down the very real chance that he had simply projected his wishes onto her reaction, and that she had felt nothing of the sort.

He could not help but feel that if only they could continue in the way they had since the previous night, then perhaps one day she might love him back at least a little. For as long as he lived, he would hope that one day she would ask him to keep going. She knew he wanted to- deep down she had to, but she wasn't ready to hear him tell her he loved her now. Still, there was a faint glimmer of hope that one day perhaps she would be ready to hear it and possibly be able to say it back.

Spending the day in her company had made him wonder why he had so fervently avoided it for nearly a month. They had discussed plans for the kitchen (he had tried not to focus on the financial repercussions associated with it), and barely a harsh word had passed between them. She had already decided that Mary Higgins must be involved in cooking and serving the food, along with two of his workers who she clearly felt were safer away from the machinery and floating cotton. Only once had their discussion become heated when Margaret had expressed that they could also run a school at the mill for the children of the workers and he had nearly had a heart attack. Thankfully, she too seemed to be trying hard to be non-confrontational and had backed down for the first time that he could remember since they had met, thought he had still heard her muttering under her breath about how if he only understood the benefits, he would come to her way of thinking. As it happened, he did understand the benefits perfectly well, having had the opportunity to be well educated before the death of his father, but he was not yet ready to relive that particular part of his past with her, nor able to spend the level of money needed to provide such an extravagance, which was neither his obligation or responsibility.

Finally, they had arrived home just before dinner was expected and Fanny's voice infiltrated the hallway, calling them in to be seated. Evidently, Watson was indisposed with work and Fanny could not bear to be alone for the evening. Dinner was not yet ready and so they had reposed in the sitting room with his mother and Fanny, whilst the latter prattled on about new papers for the walls in Watson's hallway and he directed his attention to anything other than that riveting topic.

He and Margaret had hastily whispered an agreement to put on appearances for the benefit of his mother after their untoward actions the previous evening, and of course Fanny, ever nosy who instantly declared at catching sight of Margaret's new jewels, that her own ring had been the most expensive in the shop and proceeded to show it repeatedly to all three members of her audience, causing his mother's eyebrows to raise further up into her hairline with each viewing. Fanny seemed unable to fathom why they had failed to purchase one previously and seemed to view it as a gross oversight on his part.

John was unsure of her reasoning, perhaps a show for his mother or to spite Fanny for her dismissive comments, but Margaret had seated herself beside him on the coach, the sides of their thighs touching and John was extremely aware that they were close enough for him to smell the soft lavender scent of her hair that had infiltrated his bedding and that he was starting to identify with her.

As John glanced down at his wife's hand, the slim band of gold resting snugly on her ring finger once again caught his eye. Decorated simply with a central sapphire and adorned by a small diamond on either side, the stones reflected the dining room light prettily and he watched as Margaret studied the way it glistened, tilting her hand into different positions to manipulate the scintillation being cast onto the walls and ceiling, seemingly unable to forget it's presence.

"Margaret?" At the sound of Fanny's address, her eyes finally withdrew from her new possession and her attention snapped back to the inhabitants of the room.

"I have been speaking to Miss Latimer and Miss Ashby who told me something quite shocking. Do you care to know what it was?" She asked excitedly and John internally groaned. Miss Latimer had walked on his arm a few times and was a nice enough young woman but did have reason to feel a little slighted by him, and Miss Ashby was an unashamed gossip.

"Not particularly," John replied for his wife, but he smiled and caught Margaret's eye, who appeared to be trying to keep a straight face.

Fanny turned her attention towards her mother, whose face did not hold Margaret's amusement.

"Miss Latimer said that she heard that John is not the first man that Margaret has been engaged to..."

John's blood ran cold. The comment, although directed at his mother, had a far greater effect on him. His mother's face had become stony and her brow furrowed, but she remained silent. His eyes sought out his wife's whose expression was one of panic mixed with rage.

"Is it true that you broke an engagement to that Mr Lennox before John, Margaret?" Fanny asked, her voice adopting a shrill scandalised tone and John got the distinct impression she was hoping it was.

He could feel the heat of Margaret's gaze on his face, asking him what she should say, but his own was focussed entirely on his sister. He knew it was foolish to be jealous of Henry Lennox- knew even that he had no reason to be jealous of that man and yet Fanny's lies had more gravity with his name infiltrated into them.

"Miss Ashby says, the man basically told her father as much when he purchased some stationary supplies from him the day after your wedding. Miss Latimer seemed to think that your engagement was broken because of a lack of virtue on your part and that John married you to help save your ruined reputation."

John flinched.

"Lack of virtue?" He should have been completely unsurprised at Miss Ashby spreading such a rumour but attacking Margaret's virtue made him want to instantly confront the silly girl and defend his wife's honour.

"Ruined reputation?" He asked Fanny, his tone as flippant as he could muster. His anger rose, at Fanny's disinterest in his reaction, only focussed on the tight-lipped expression of their mother and his fists clenched.

Annoyance settled over him- at Fanny and Lennox and Miss Latimer and Ashby and Margaret for putting herself in such a position that such lies could even be considered the least bit believable in the first place.

"It sounds to me as though you should find some less silly friends, Fanny." He said, his voice adopting a fake lightness as soon as he had was sure he could engage in conversation without biting his sister's head off. "Certainly, it is a scandalous story they tell, but a little over contrived don't you think?"

Fanny seemed completely oblivious to any discomfort or embarrassment she may have caused Margaret or John and she blundered on.

"You see, they also said that you were corrupted and been seen in an inappropriate stance with John at your father's funeral, so you were likely to be carrying his child already…" Still Fanny prattled on as if discussing the weather. He had expected that particular gem, but the irony of the situation was not lost on him and it still shocked him to hear that two young ladies would so freely discuss it with his own sister.

"Fanny!" Mrs Thornton stopped her before John could. "Are you intent on insulting everyone in the household this morning with your ridiculous gossiping or just Margaret and your brother?" She asked, despair laced into her words.

"Well, I didn't actually believe that one…" Fanny defended herself, clearly genuinely confused as to why her mother had chastised her.

"We don't need to hear anymore. It is just the foolish prattle of two silly little girls; I am surprised you even entertained their comments, Fanny." Her mother commented dryly rolling her eyes as she set aside her sewing.

"You can tell your friends that their surmising has given us great amusement, Fanny." John, said moving his hand to rest lightly on Margaret's and smoothing his thumb across the intricate band resting there.

"However, I fear they should turn their hand to writing sensation novels rather than becoming detectives. You can assure them their informants are unreliable." He finished, yawning as though completely unconcerned by anything his sister had said. "Aren't they, Margaret?"

"Of course." She agreed quickly, "How flattering that they suspect my life to be so interesting," she commented nonchalantly, but her disheartened expression exposed her true feelings.

To her credit, Fanny was easily placated and happily led the way to the dining table at Martha's announcement of dinner being ready. Unperturbed, she moved onto Watson's opinions of the other Mill owners, completely unaffected. However, Mrs Thornton was quick to change the subject and would allow no more gossip to be discussed for the remainder of the meal, but the damage was done and there was a tension between he and Margaret that had not been there all day. Her attention was not on her meal, in fact, she barely ate anything, instead moving the food around the plate rather than into her mouth. Intermittently, she looked up at him, as if checking his reaction to every element of dinner and spent the rest of the time with her eyes downcast towards her plate. Fanny's words had upset her, but John could not help but feel as though some of the gossip was entirely her own fault.

"Watson tells me, you are still thinking about joining the speculation?" Fanny commented, when she had finished taking her last mouthful of food from her plate, placing her knife and fork down on her plate with a dramatic clatter.

John's annoyance pricked. Fanny could have no interest in bringing up that subject, other than to be nosey and he had no time for that. In truth, he had recently given more thought to it that he would have been happy to admit. Watson had approached him about it shortly after their wedding and he had seriously considered it. He was not a gambling man, especially after the trouble his father had found himself in, and his instinctual answer to speculating would be an instant dismissal of the concept, but his financial situation had made the stakes considerably higher. It would either ruin him or be the answer to all his debts and with the bank loan needing to be repaid imminently, he was loathed to admit it would hurt him to turn Watson down, but turn him down he must. He would not be like his father and take a chance on something so important.

"Perhaps I am." He replied, his answer non-committal. Bringing a forkful of vegetables to his mouth, he focussed on the plate in front of him, hoping Margaret was not about to ask further questions, fully aware that his hope was in vain.

"What speculation?" She asked, not missing a beat, her eyes trained on his face.

"Watson has a wonderful opportunity for some select people to invest in a speculation, and he has asked John to take part." Fanny explained before he had chance to. "John is sure to make a massive return, but he is being most foolish and refusing to commit, she added judgementally.

The second Fanny had mentioned the speculation he had cursed her silently, knowing what Margaret's reaction was likely to be. He was correct.

Margaret's eyes narrowed at him. "A speculation is ultimately gambling, is it not?"

"Watson says it is not gambling when you have assurances of success such as he is able to give…" Fanny repeated Watson's words proudly, her chin raised in confidence.

"Assurances?" she asked, her distain clear. "Is there any chance that money would be lost by those who invest?" Margaret demanded. "Even a small chance?" she added before Fanny would refute such a claim.

"Well, of course," she admitted, shrugging her shoulders and scoffing a little at Margaret as if she was a child attempting to understand adult affairs.

"Then it is gambling." Margaret pronounced, dismissing Fanny and turning to him. "You have been considering this?" she asked incredulous, all trace of the light-hearted companionship they had enjoyed throughout the day entirely evaporating instantly.

"Let's talk about this later, Margaret." He stated firmly, his tone warning.

"That is a yes then!" she declared icily.

"I think the proposition deserved to be considered." He answered honestly, annoyed at her accusatory tone. "I have not yet told Watson whether I intend to be a part of his scheme or not."

"You would not be the only person involved in such a scheme would you though, Mr Thornton?"

"Mother, tell John, make John understand how foolish it would be to miss this opportunity…" Fanny turned to her mother, ignoring Margaret, clearly displeased to have her opinion challenged.

"After all that you promised- after last night- you didn't tell me…" Margaret continued to him, quiet enough that it did not challenge Fanny for the loudest voice in the room but enough that he was under no doubt that his mother could still hear her.

"Margaret…" He warned quietly. The use of his surname had not escaped his notice. Knowing an argument was brewing and that she would forget the presence of his mother and sister in her passion, he tried to interrupt her continuing stream of disapproval.

"Watson is set to make a fortune! He is almost sure of it…" Fanny continued, raising her voice, entirely undaunted by the argument unfolding between he and Margaret.

"Now is not the time, Fanny…" he attempted to silence his sister.

"The terms you offered me were clear…" His wife had lowered her voice to a whisper, but her annoyance caused it to carry.

"Look, Margaret…"

"Really, Mother. John has always been such a stick in the mud…"

"You brother knows what he is doing, Fanny. May I suggest you stay out of things you do not…"

"You asked me to be your business partner and yet you did not feel the need to share this with me?" Margaret continued severely, cutting across his efforts and ignoring his mother and Fanny completely.

"Margaret, can I speak with you alone?" His voice rose above them all, causing the three ladies to stop speaking and stare at him incredulously. His chair scrapped on the wooden floor as he pushed it quickly back from the table, wincing as his shoulder throbbed with pain at the harsh action. Ignoring it, he approached Margaret's chair and pulled hers back roughly, without waiting for an answer. To her credit, she rose quickly, and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her from the curious glance of his sister and thunderous distain of his mother. He did not stop until he had led her into the privacy of his office, lit a lamp to bring some light into the darkness and shut the door behind them. Roughly she yanked her hand from his and rubbed where he had tightly gripped her, her face thunderous.

"Don't you ever pull me like you were chastising a child again, John Thornton!" she commanded, practically shouting and John tried to shush her, which only served to make her more irate.

"How dare you, command me to do anything..." she raged, her chest heaving in her annoyance, and he let her, waiting silently until she had finished before he finally spoke.

"Margaret, you were going to say something you did not mean if we remained having this conversation in the company of my mother and Fanny any longer and clearly you are not going to drop this topic until I have explained everything properly."

"If you had explained already, we would not have had to argue in front of them at all!" she pointed out, folding her arms and sinking into the couch opposite his desk.

Sighing, he rubbed his face in his hands. "Look, Margaret, I know you are upset about my sister's sharing of the idle gossip of her silly friends but that doesn't give you a right to take it out on me at the first opportunity."

"I'm not!" she began, incredulous, but he raised his hand to cut her off.

"No, you are doing what you always do! To deflect any blame from yourself, you are attacking me for something I have not yet done!" he proclaimed, his tone declarative rather than accusatory.

She was refusing to look at him with her arms crossed in front of her as if to raise an invisible barrier, and John fought to stop himself from losing his temper with her, reminded by her childish reaction that she was a full twelve years younger than he.

"I didn't tell you about the speculation because it barely crossed my mind until recently and we were not on speaking terms," he said, choosing to ignore the fact that she was still turned from him. "And last night, it wasn't at the forefront of my mind..." he added quietly, noticing the way she blushed at the memory and her eyes closed just a little in either embarrassment or regret.

"In honesty, I had already decided that the speculation is too much of a chance to take. It would mean gambling not only our livelihood but also that of all my workers, and I cannot bring myself to do it."

Her eyes darted to meet his as referred to the mill as the livelihood of both of them and he could see she was already beginning to realise that she may have been too quick to anger, her staunch ideals of right and wrong causing her to act rashly. It was what he found the most infuriating about her and yet one of the things that made him admire her so, when it was not directed at him.

"I had to consider it, Margaret, I told you yesterday that the winter is a hard time for the mill, so I felt it prudent to at least ponder on it." He explained softly, coming to sit beside her.

Slumping back against the chair she was in, the fight quickly left her, and she had the good grace to look a little ashamed.

"I don't know why I became so angry with you so quickly, since I think I knew you would not really be interested in such a scheme." She said quietly, her attention back on her hands. "You were right, of course. I was hurt- am hurt- by what Fanny said. I hate the thought that people would say those things about me. And you."

Self-consciously, she twirled her ring with her thumb and forefinger, her eyes following the jewels as they spun.

"I know, but we did realise it was a possibility. At least one of them is a little justified…" he pointed out and she bit her lip agitatedly at the memory.

"They will forget, Margaret, and some poor other unsuspecting party will be their new entertainment."

She nodded, despondently.

"I suspect that I also thought the way we have managed to enjoy each other's company today was too good to be true and so I ruined it." She said quietly.

"You have not ruined it." He assured her, leaning back against the couch so that they were both leaning against it, their upper arms resting against each other. As he inhaled the usual faint scent of lavender that clung softly to her hair alerted him to how closely they were sitting and he strove to remember that they had been in far more intimate situations and it was ridiculous to feel nervous about sitting beside her alone.

"I am sorry John" she said, turning to face him. As she shifted her body, the thick material of her dark skirt brushed against his legs, stealing his gaze for a moment, before her dark blue eyes, beseeching him to look at her, stole his attention. "You do know that I've told you the truth, don't you? Henry asked for my hand once and I said no. That was the end of it."

Her brow was furrowed, and he knew this was as close as she was going to come to admitting his earlier statement about deflecting her true emotions onto him was correct.

"I know" he said simply, allowing himself to get lost in the depths of her eyes.

Clearing his throat that seemed to have suddenly become unable to swallow, he blinked rapidly to stop himself from falling completely under the spell he so wanted to be cast between them. Instead, he sat up, then stood, offering his hand to help her up. She took it without hesitation, and stood with him, the top of her head stopping just below his shoulders, but her eyes never once left his and she seemed to be debating whether to say something further.

"If you hadn't asked me again, I wouldn't have ever married anyone." Her voice cracked as she finally voiced her thoughts and John could see her body shrink a little as though she could not stand the vulnerability that came with a statement that held so much weight.

His heart leapt a little at her words and he struggled to hold it down, afraid that statement meant so much more to him that she meant to convey. Intently, he studied her face, his eyes settling on the pink plumpness of her parted lips and the absolute trust that he found there. Not love, but something that he could grasp hold of and cling to. He had seem many things behind those glassy orbs: fear, grief, remorse, happiness, confusion- but never such complete trust- and the weight of it was so consuming that he did not know how to tell her that she did not need to explain- that he knew her, more than she could realise and had not doubted her, but he could not stop his jealousy. She was wrong, of course, some other, younger gentleman would have stolen her heart, of that he had no doubt, but he could feel the sincerity behind her words and that was almost enough to make him believe it.

He swallowed thickly.

"You don't know that…" he replied softly, pulling her closer. There were just inches between them and their hands still joined, their fingers lacing together easily and without thought on his part, as though they remembered the movements required like a familiar dance.

"But I do, John." She said confidently tilting her head a little, her blue eyes darker in the dimmed lighting of his office, more grey than blue. The action had exposed her neck further, the smoothness of her cream skin invited his lips to caress it and he remembered how she had shuddered in his arms as he had done that very thing in the dimmed fire light. His heart hammed as it remembered the desperation that came with knowing what they had started falling towards, without the assurance of the feelings that should accompany it.

"Margaret…" he began, hoping her heart was half as relentless as his was. Every fibre of his being was yelling at him to do it again, to bring his lips to her skin and make her want him as he wanted her, and yet the sound of her firm, "perhaps we should go to sleep" screamed louder and he did not jump. She had not wanted to fall with him and he could not- would not make her. He waited, wanting her to give him some sign that she felt something for him in that moment. But it did not come. Instead, a firm knock at the door made them both step back and their hands dropped lifelessly to their sides as the door opened.

"John?" his mother asked, stepping into the room. "Are you intending to return to dinner at some point or have you both abandoned Fanny and I for good?"

"No mother," he replied quickly, hoping she could not tell how hot and dishevelled he felt. Quickly, he strode to the door and held it open for Margaret to lead the way, which she did without a second glance, passing by him close enough that he felt her arm brush past his body, which affected him far more than it should have and definitely more than she could have intended.

He tried to ignore his mother's raised eyebrows as he passed her and followed his wife back in to the dining room.

…

As he could have predicted, a simple untruth about John feeling suddenly ill and wishing Margaret to help him find some smelling salts had more than satisfied Fanny, prompting her to offer him a variety of different salts from her purse.

His mother had kept her silence, but he knew she was waiting to question him. As the darkness well and truly drew in outside, Fanny stole Margaret to show her the family piano and after much imploring from his sister, his wife had given in and the pair had disappeared off to the drawing room where the piano sat unplayed now that Fanny no longer lived with them.

It had not taken long for his mother to make the most of the opportunity.

"Care to explain to me what exactly is going on between you and Margaret?" She asked, her expression one of steel.

"I don't know what you mean, Mother." He stood, turning from her to a side table where a bottle of port and some glasses lay. He did not particularly care for port but poured himself a small glass, thinking it might assist him to get through the interrogation he feared was about to come.

"I think you do, John." She stated bluntly. "There are long stretches of time, weeks even where I would swear that you and Margaret hate each other; you barely acknowledge each other's presence at all."

John downed the contents of the glass and replaced it on the side table, before pacing the room, his eyes trained on the carpet.

"Then there are Margaret's comments at dinner about your Marriage- clearly, she has control over your running of the mill- which is extremely unwise, John."

"She does not have control in that way, she is simply against becoming involved with Watson's speculation." He began, determinedly.

"Is she pregnant?"

He stopped pacing.

"No, of course not." He replied, his voice devoid of emotion as he grasped the conclusion his mother had come to about their odd behaviour.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He poured himself another glass of port and drank it quickly.

"It would explain everything: why she goes from happy to angry in seconds, why you have argued recently- her hormones would be all over the place at this point. And after all, you could barely keep away from each other for five minutes at the wedding and when you returned last night…"

John's mouth dropped open. This was the last thing he had expected his mother to assume. He would not have been particularly surprised if she had figured their whole arrangement out, but not this.

"She's not pregnant."

"Has she been sick at all in the mornings? Fanny's gossiping friends are exactly why I warned you about this…"

Despairing, he rubbed his aching temples with one hand and sighed dejectedly. He was going to have to tell her.

"She's not pregnant, Mother. The reason for our odd behaviour towards each other, is that my marriage to Margaret is not all that it appears. When her father died, I could not bear to see her leave with her aunt and disappear from my life altogether. So, I asked her to marry me, so that she could help me with the mill- be my partner in business."

Realisation crossed her features. She sank into a chair but her penetrating gaze did not leave his face. She was angry, but worse than that, her disappointment was palpable, and John shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

"Then you are a fool, John." She said, shaking her head. "If you needed more help with the mill, you could have asked me, and I would have happily assisted." She proclaimed bluntly, and John smiled sadly at her prognosis.

"I did not need help with the mill… I needed her, and I knew that would make her stay."

"So now, you have a wife that performs her duties in order to get what she wants, which is to help the workers she so sympathises with? Your children will be the result of a business transaction and…"

"For a start, there won't be any children, Mother." He cut her off bluntly, feeling his anger and defensiveness rise. "That is how I know without a shadow of a doubt that Margaret is not pregnant. She doesn't perform any 'duties' because we agreed on all the terms before-hand and that is not one of them. I cannot make her love me, so I will not make her do…that," he finished lamely, his frustration and embarrassment at having to disclosing such personal matters to his mother evident.

His mother shook her head in bafflement, her lips pursed tightly together. Unlike him, she never lost her judgemental composure for a moment; her anger was internal and seething rather than manifested in outward expressions.

"So, you have condemned yourself to a life of celibacy, without children and without love because you are infatuated with a girl who refuses to love you?"

It hurt to hear it phrased like that but as John pondered her words he realised there was the painful stab of truth to them. Except the last part.

"I did it selfishly, because I am in love with her." He admitted hating the way his mother's eyes narrowed sceptically.

"She cannot make herself love me, any more than I can make her. I believe I am getting more from this relationship than she."

His mother's face became pitying and rather than disappointed, as if there was only sadness left rather than anger. She was silent for a long time, listening to the sound of obnoxious piano notes carrying through the house, intermingled with Fanny's robust singing voice.

"You could have loved another, John." Her words so closely mirrored his own as he had told his wife she could have married someone else and he could not help but smile a little at the memory.

"No, I couldn't," he answered truthfully.

"My son." She crossed the room and reached out to rest her palm against his face. "Can you really not see that you are worth more than that?"

It reminded him so of the afternoon that Margaret had rejected him, and he had known that he was not good enough for her and all those feelings of inadequacy threatened to come flooding back, but he would not let them. Her feelings must have changed a little- she had married him, assured him she could not have married another- but his mother was right. It was not enough. He would bide his time, cement their friendship and hope and pray that her feelings could change again.

"Please don't blame her mother." He asked as she withdrew her hand and came to sit beside him. "Whatever you think of her for accepting me, remember that I also preyed on her disadvantages, offering her something she wanted as an alternative to something she feared so that she could not refuse."

"You cannot expect me to like her after all you have disclosed tonight?" She asked incredulously.

"No, I cannot, but I expect you to treat her as my wife."

She nodded slowly.

"I think you may be surprised yet." Her tone had become softer now, less pitying and more caring. "She is young, John. Despite my confusion over your tumultuous relationship, there are times when she has looked at you where I have been entirely convinced that she was in love with you. Perhaps you just need to have patience."

He smiled sadly.

"I want so badly to convince myself of that, but I fear she is just an excellent actress, Mother, pretending to convince outside viewers." He admitted.

Both heads turned towards the door of the sitting room as the delicate opening bars of Franz Litsz's Liebestraum floated along the corridor, the notes tumbling quickly over each other like a cascade. For a moment neither moved, both watching the open doorway as if it would reveal the identity of the musician behind such a sound.

"I thought Margaret could not play the piano? She told us so herself the very first time Fanny and I met her." His mother asked, confusion lining her words.

"She cannot." He answered confused, "it must be Fanny playing."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. There is no way that is Fanny." His mother quipped quickly. She was right, of course, Fanny had neither the skill or inclination to play something so classically graceful.

"I think she must be pretending about a great many things," his mother added, not entirely kindly.

As if compelled to by the melody, John ignored his mother and rose from his position. Intrigued, he followed the sound along the hallway towards the drawing room where the annual Thornton party was held, and the piano resided. The melody changed from soft and seductive to louder and more impassioned as it reached its crescendo and John peered curiously into the room, stopping beside the doorway rather than entering fully. Sure enough, it was not Fanny that sat at the piano stool, but Margaret, her hands gliding across the keys quickly as he body swayed with the motion of her playing. It was by no means perfect and there were times where her fingers struggled to reach the keys, but for her to have claimed she could not play was a blatant lie. She was no unskilled novice as he had been led to believe (had she actually told him so herself or hand his sister informed him of that) and certainly better than the stilted, emotionless playing his sister demonstrated. The piece slowed, flowing as it had at the start and John watched the way her nose wrinkled with concentration.

"Do not lose hope yet, John." His mother's whispered encouragement beside his ear made him jump. "I suspect, that young lady is rather good at suppressing things she does not wish to acknowledge."

He tried not to dwell on that and not knowing how, did not respond. He turned his attentions back to the piano, noticing for the first time that Fanny was stood to the side, watching Margaret play with a look of such jealousy combined with awe that he almost laughed. She finished the song and Fanny instantly applauded informing her rival that she had a similar piece she often liked to play, and Margaret rose from the piano obligingly to allow Fanny to perform.

The moment Fanny's fingers touched the keys the magic was broken, and John was not sorry when Watson arrived to escort his wife home shortly afterwards.

…

Margaret did not know what had happened to her mother's wedding ring. She assumed she was probably buried with it but did not suppose there was anything she could do to find out for certain now. Until John had asked her to wear a ring herself, she had given such a thing no thought at all since being a child. As a child, she had loved to look at all her mother's jewellery- not that she had a lot. Aunt Shaw had far more, though to Margaret, Mama's less extravagant jewels had always seemed far more tasteful. Perhaps that was why she had been attracted to the simpler, bands and stones when confronted with numerous options in the shop. John had resisted choosing for her alone, only making the final decision from a small selection she liked. Margaret was unsure whether it was purely chance that made him pick the one she had truly wanted or whether he perhaps knew her better than she had ever given him credit for. The sapphire was different to any ring she had seen as a wedding ring before, but the style was similar to her mother's and that somehow made her feel closer to her. It was silly, she knew that, but she felt it regardless.

How could he seem to know and understand her so well at times and yet at others not at all? How could he not have known that she would be livid that he would not consult with her about the speculation Watson was offering? Of course, she had overreacted to the situation as usual, but she really did feel angry and offended that he had forgotten to speak to her about it, especially after all they had said last night.

Then in his office, he had made her feel so guilty for misjudging him and Margaret had ended the evening feeling confused and unsettled. Thank goodness she had married a man such as John who seemed unaffected by the knowledge that his wife had developed such a reputation as to have her virtue questioned. No doubt a man like Henry would have been extremely angry at her and appalled to have negative associations with his name, circulating in polite society. It seemed that no matter how well they were getting on there was still and underlying tension between them that simmered in wait and exploded at the first opportunity. That thought frightened her and yet she had no idea how to quell it.

Playing the piano for the first time since leaving Helston, in contrast, had felt like taking a deep breath after being underwater for a length of time, and although her unpractised skills were still poor (she could see Edith's face wincing now at each mistake), it had been nice to lose herself in the music if only for a little while. Fanny had requested she learn part of duet so that they might play together during the next Thornton party and she had dutifully promised she would, despite the sense of dread that the idea of playing in public had filled her with. In truth, she felt the music chosen did not have much character or indeed an even marginally thrilling melody. Still, it had been nice to find that she and her sister- in-law had something in common, and all thoughts of the unkind and untrue comments circulating around town about her had completely evaporated as they played.

When she and John returned to their chamber that night, not long after Fanny had returned home with her husband, he had told her that his mother knew everything. She felt a surprising sense of loss at their secret, the one only she and John knew, being divulged to someone else, but she could not blame John under the circumstances. She had been horrified to hear that even his mother suspected she may be with child on top of the vicious rumours, and under the circumstances could see that it was best that Hannah Thornton knew that to be impossible.

"What did your mother say?" she had asked tentatively as they climbed the stairs to retire, aware that she was likely to be hated even more that she already was by the woman and not wishing to start another argument.

"She accepted it surprisingly well." Was his reply, and he did not seem inclined to elaborate further. That was worrying.

"So she said nothing of substance? She did not chastise you?" Margaret asked, disbelieving. Surely, his mother had some poison to impart on the matter? She usually did.

"She told me to be patient." Was his cryptic reply. Margaret had no idea what he was talking about and since he seemed so keen to keep that information from her, she was a little afraid to ask, not sure that she wished to understand.

For the third time in her adult life, Margaret did not ask for the assistance of a maid, and instead implored her husband for his help in undressing. He did so without comment, though his hands still trembled just a little as he unbuttoned her dress efficiently and set to work on the laces of her corset. She was ashamed to admit that a small but undeniable pang of emptiness that pricked her heart when she heard him swallow deeply before stepping away and leaving her to complete the task of removing her clothes herself. That same feeling lingered as he turned from her to clean his already less purple wound himself rather than asking for her assistance.

Martha had neglected to light the fire and the air in the room was cold as it hit her exposed skin, the lamps doing very little to heat the large space. Quickly, she climbed into bed and waited under the blankets for him to join her. The ring on her left hand felt heavy and she was still not used to its presence or the way it caught her eye whenever she happened to catch sight of it. In the dimmed firelight of their bedroom it seemed to sparkle even more than it had in the light downstairs and her eyes focussed on it for the hundredth time that day and she pondered all that it was supposed to symbolise.

She had admitted to him that it if were not for him, she would not have married at all, this afternoon. She felt as though it had cost her a fraction of her pride to do so but she had just felt, rather irrationally in the moment, that she had wanted him to know it. Fanny's repetition of the gossip she had heard had hurt her, even though she been aware that people had been talking about her. That need for John's approval had returned and she had wanted him to understand that she had never been engaged to anyone else, though she knew deep down that he knew that without her confirming it.

Blowing the lamps out swiftly, he climbed into bed and settled on his back beside her. It was cold, even under the blankets, and Margaret shivered a little, trying to do so as quietly as she could.

"Are you cold?" John asked into the darkness. They were not touching but he must have felt her tremble from the freezing air; perhaps the movement affected the blankets.

"Yes" she admitted, her teeth chattering, as she struggled to warm up. She also spoke to the darkness as she tried to hold the blankets more tightly under her neck. Only the sound of the clock beside the bed responded for a moment. Margaret abandoned clutching the blankets to wrap her arms around herself instead.

"I suspect you are getting ill from being out in that storm."

She wanted to point out that he too was outside in it for nearly as long as she was, but held her tongue since a large part of her suspected that, annoyingly, he was probably right. Minutes ticked by and yet her body temperature did not seem to wish to regulate and still she shivered.

Beside her, John finally shifted his body just a little so that his arm rested against hers. Even through the thin cotton of his night shirt, his arm radiated heat and Margaret flinched a little at the unexpected (but not entirely unwelcome) contact.

"I could try to warm you?" He offered, tentatively. His words settled heavily in the pit of her stomach. His tone was that of an apology and Margaret knew he was afraid he was offering something she would see as improper. Although she felt it was kind of him to ask, she was glad it was dark so that her blushes were spared. The only way she could think of for him to warm her was to hold her close in the darkness and that was surely something that couples who had a purely platonic marriage did not do? Propriety demanded she refuse- but she did fear she was in danger of remaining awake all night if she could not warm up. The voice in the back of her head told her that this was probably as bad an idea as her actions last night had been, but she was cold, and she well remembered from their mistake at Papa's funeral how warm and comforting his arms had the power to be. If she accepted his offer, would it ruin the friendship they had recommenced battling towards? She feared the answer was yes, but if she was to refuse, would that not offend him more?

"Yes please," she replied, shocking herself with her boldness in answering before her mind had fully, logically decided on the best course of action. She was ashamed of the desperate edge her voice had adopted- it stemmed from the desire to be warm, but she could not bear for him to think she was desperate for him to be close to her, if that was indeed what he intended.

"Turn onto your side, facing away from me," he instructed, quietly and she instantly did so, confused as to what he was planning to do to her. The uncertainty made her pulse race and she had to remind herself to breathe as she waited for him to move, berating herself for being ridiculous.

Gently he moved his hand to the side of her hip, the heat of his skin burning through her cotton nightgown onto her own like a brand, and carefully pulled her in to him. He tenderly wrapped himself around her and held her much smaller frame to his, so that her back was against the hard panes of his chest and his hand moved carefully across her stomach, barely touching her, to wrap around her. He lifted her just a little to place his other arm under her head below the pillows and the bring the arm wrapped around her body to rest on the mattress below them beside her ribs. Margaret nearly asked him to stop as she felt his hand brush fully against the cotton of her nightgown as he tried to get comfortable. The heat of his touch imprinted through to her bare skin, rather than the stiffer protection of her corset that had felt so much less scandalous, making her gasp loudly.

His face was close to hers, just behind her head and she trembled a little as she realised she could feel his breath on the back of her neck and hear his breath catch in his throat. His sandalwood and soap scent surrounded her, intoxicating her completely. For some embarrassing reason, her mind wondered to focus on how easy it would be for him to caress her neck as he had done last night, rather than the light breaths that teased her skin and she shook her head just a little to rid herself of the thought. He was taking fast deep breaths that made her own breathing become more difficult and she swallowed thickly, entirely unsure whether the feeling of dizziness that gripped really had anything to do will her apparent fever or rather anticipation. That thought in itself frightened her and she tried desperately to make herself forget it.

She was convinced he had purposefully held his lower body away from hers and for that she was grateful- it seemed so completely improper to be pressed so completely flush against his whole body and she was unsure she could have laid still, had he tried to press that part of them together. Whilst he had pulled her body to him, she had held herself stiff, subconsciously resisting and he seemed to be doing the same, scared to relax his arm, perhaps for fear of hurting her, or simply from fear of touching her further. Her back began to protest the effort of holding so still and unable to keep it up any longer, she carefully allowed herself to relax back further into his unusual embrace, causing new parts of their bodies to make contact, making him pull his lower body away from her and utter broken apology. She was relieved when he too eventually released a heavy breath that warmed her ear and held her to him, allowing his arms to relax against her body rather than holding them awkwardly so that they hardly touched her. Their torsos were so close that she could feel his rapid heartbeat through her own chest, hers beating equally erratic and they breathed in unison as he held the blankets closer to her. She supposed he must be in pain from his wounded shoulder, pressed so closely against her and that must be the source of his increased heart rate. His breath was steady on her neck and making her heart flutter in a most annoying way, but she could not deny that she felt warmer and her shivering was beginning to lessen. Heat seemed to be radiating from his body into hers and she closed her eyes, wanting to block out the discomfort and focus on the warmth.

"Do you want me to let go of you?" he whispered after so long had passed that she had begun to think he had fallen asleep. His voice was so close to her ear that she shivered against him at the feeling of his words on the back of her neck. Margaret thought about it for a moment, her eyes still closed. Part of her did want to be released, felt it was too much, too complicated and foreign and the other part wanted her to hold him there so that he could not leave her and let the cold back in.

"No" she answered, sounding a little doubtful, though she had tried to speak with conviction.

His pounding chest implied he wasn't particularly relaxed with the situation either and she had the worrying thought that perhaps he did not wish to continue holding her. "Do you want to let me go?" she asked, not knowing whether she wanted his answer to be yes or no.

"No." he replied quickly, his voice far more assured than hers had been, and she nodded to show she had heard him. They lapsed into a heavy silence, the only sound the ticking of the clock and their disjointed breathing.

For a long time, Margaret's mind raced, refusing to let her enter the comfort of sleep. More than anything she wished she had someone she could confide in about so many things. If only Edith would understand and tell her what to do about the fact that she couldn't seem to stop either an argument or something inappropriate happening between her and John when they were alone together. Thankfully, she had her back to him and therefore had no way to know what he was thinking or how he felt about the situation, and the longer she lay in his arms, it didn't seem so scandalous at all. After all, both of their intentions had been completely innocent and if they were to sleep in the same bed for the rest of their lives, they were bound to have made physical contact at some point. Still, she had the horrible feeling that Edith would not approve of such an action if she did know everything there was to know about their situation.


	13. Chapter 13

Dear readers,

Thank you for our kind reviews once again. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year (nearly)! For a while I thought I might get this chapter to you before Christmas, but of course I did what I usually do and wrote it, then deleted it and wrote it again several times over. I hope it wasn't too long a wait. It is however, a long chapter again. Sorry about that.

In answer to Shelley who asked whether the rating will increase to an M in future chapters- it will not. Things may be implied but nothing sexual will be explicitly described. I just don't personally feel it is needed to move the plot forward in this case. I hope that was the answer you sought. To anyone who hoped it would become M rated, I am sorry to disappoint. I am sure such a scene written by me would have frankly been a bigger disappointment! It'd be terrible!

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter. Happy New Year!

Elle. X

…

Margaret found herself still surrounded by John's arms when she awoke. The small but steady rhythm of his breathing told her he was still sleeping, and she did not move for fear of waking him. As soon as he did awaken, he quickly bid her good morning as he had the morning before and she replied in the same manner. Quickly, he washed and dressed and rose to call Martha to help her dress. Neither of them spoke about their new sleeping arrangement and carried on with their days as if nothing untoward had happened. Margaret supposed nothing untoward had happened really. That was certainly what she had told herself when she had asked Martha not to light the fire in their chamber in the evenings anymore. Margaret could tell that John was worried about the state of the mill, more so than he had told her directly and wanted to do whatever she could to help save money around the house. His mother had seemed surprised but not disapproving of the suggestion, and so small cuts had been made, including the lighting of fires in the house. Lighting them in the mornings was necessary- it was so cold Margaret feared they could freeze if they did not have them lighted before rising, but whilst they were sleeping it was another matter. John had not commented on the continued lack of heat in the room, but she knew he had noticed the change from the cursory glance he cast in the direction of the fireplace each night when he first entered the room. When he had offered to warm her the next night, it was with more confidence that Margaret had accepted his help in the matter. After a few nights, they had adopted the same embrace without speaking at all, her back pressed tightly against his chest and his breath on the back of her neck as he breathed in her hair, both of their hearts racing erratically in the same way, regardless of how often they followed the same movements, refusing to be quelled as the action became a routine.

Rather than hating her more, if anything Mrs Thornton had been more tolerant of her than she had ever been. Margaret was under no illusions that the woman liked her, but she seemed to be making less effort to be falsely nice to her in front of John, then avoiding her when they were alone and instead lapsed into a more natural distanced politeness or judgement depending on whether she approved of what Margaret was doing. She did not avoid her as she had, and they could sit in the same room in a companionable silence rather than engaging in synthetic polite conversation and if she disagreed she said so- Margaret did not always care for her opinion, but she respected her for giving it. They often had nothing at all to say to each other and that was fine. Hannah had not ever made any suggestion that she now knew of the true nature of her Marriage with John and Margaret was glad of that also. She felt it was none of Hannah's business and was happy to think that the older woman felt the same.

Thankfully, Margaret did not have too much free time to spend with her mother in law. Instead, her days were spent at the mill followed by a trip to the Princeton District. As promised, Nicholas Higgins had met with her to discuss how she could set up the running of the kitchen to most effectively feed the workers a midday meal in shifts and Mary had been employed (for a modest sum that was most welcome in the Higgins household) to help with cooking and serving the food. The Boucher children accompanied her to work and the older ones helped her with her work. The younger siblings were helpful where they could be and, once given sweet treats for their efforts, happily played whilst the workers were eating. It had taken a few weeks to prepare everything, but the first meals were served just a couple of weeks into December. Margaret had also persuaded John to release two of the younger girls from working the looms to help Mary. Both had the same persistent hacking cough that poor Bessie Higgins had developed from the loose cotton in the air and Margaret was determined that the two girls would not face the same tragic fate as her dear friend. John had tried to resist her plans, fearing that he would be losing two able loom workers and Margaret had braced herself for an argument. Thankfully, when she disclosed her fears for the girls' health and implored him to have a heart he had relented, and Margaret smugly liked to think that her small victory proved that she had been right all along- her husband did care about the workers at least a little.

She did not often see John when she was at the mill as he was usually hidden up in his office, working relentlessly through paperwork, fixing broken machinery or overseeing the shift rotation of the workers when the overseers could not handle the task alone. In the day, he was distant from her but at night he would come home to dine before heading to his office at home to continue working there. Margaret would often accompany him, selecting a book from the overflowing shelves she had not had the opportunity to explore the first time she had experienced the room mid-argument.

On a cold December night, the wind whipped past the office's glass window panes, whistling it's tune as it did so, and Margaret rose to close the thick red curtains and shut out it's song. Returning to her seat opposite her husband's desk, Margaret carefully turned the page of the book she was reading and tucked her feet up on the leather couch under her skirts. The glow of the firelight danced before her eyes, casting shadows across her page and she watched it for a moment before resuming her reading. The scratch of a quill on paper caused her to look up from her page and glance interestedly at John. He was hunched over a ledger and scribbling furiously, his brow furrowed in concentration. His jaw was set, and his eyes moved backwards and forwards over the scribbles in front of him and Margaret cast her eyes across his form from his hands up to his hair interestedly, wondering what was bothering him so. She was about to ask when a knock at the door interrupted and she rose to see who was on the other side. Martha apologised for disturbing them, handing her a letter and retreating quickly. Margaret close the door and returned to her position on the couch as she read the addressee- Mrs John Thornton of Marlborough Mills. It took her a second to realise that the correspondence was meant for her rather than John's mother, but as soon as she did she turned it hurriedly to see who would be writing to her. She felt a little sting of disappointment to see it was not from Fred, quickly replaced by anticipation when she saw the return address- Harley Street, London.

Intrigued, she ripped open the envelope and read through the small, neat script, her eyes devouring the words.

 _Dear Margaret,_

 _I have so much to tell you dearest cousin! Firstly, I must tell you the good news- Henry Lennox is to be married in January to Miss Eleanor Winton. She is a dear and has become a very close friend to me these past few weeks, though she will not make as good a match for Henry as you would have. Still, I am so pleased you found your mill owner and I hope he is making you happy._

 _My other good news I must wait to tell you in person. Luckily, Mother has asked me to invite you and Mr Thornton to spend Christmas with us in Harley Street. Oh, Margaret, finally you can meet Sholto! He will love you so, I am sure of it. I will not hear of you saying no, my dear, Sholto is simply dying to meet his Aunt and I cannot wait to see his little face. Captain Lennox has always loved spending time playing with his son but now he is a little older and far more interactive than he was as a baby, he is rather pleased with him! You should see the way he smiles for his father. Anyway, you simply must come and meet both Sholto and Miss Winton. Of course, you will be invited to the wedding._

 _We shall look forward to seeing you soon._

 _Much love,_

 _Edith_

"That envelope must have contained something very exciting to have you pouring over it with such animation?" John's voice cut through her thoughts and the excitement and relief Margaret felt. During the time when she and John had not been on speaking terms, Margaret had written to her cousin and aunt both as she had not had much else to do but had received no reply and begun to worry that they had quite forgotten about her, or not forgiven her for marrying a northern tradesman, despite the good terms they had parted on.

"It is from Edith." She replied brightly, smiling at him and earning a warm smile from him that reflected her happiness in return. "She has invited us to spend Christmas with her and Captain Lennox! Finally, I will be able to meet Sholto!"

His face dropped, his eyes instantly losing the sparkle they had momentarily adopted, and her heart plummeted in response.

"Margaret, I cannot leave the mill over Christmas." He told her quietly, his eyes directed at the quill markings in front of him, rather than at her, as though it shamed him to admit such a thing.

"Oh." She replied quietly, the excitement leaving her as she redirected her own eyes to the letter that had momentarily held so much hope and now only incited disappointment. "Are there problems at the mill?" She asked, tentatively, leaning forward a little in the hope of seeing whatever was causing him distress in his scrawl.

"No." He cut her question back, barely allowing her time to finish, his eyes shooting to hers. "It is only that the winter is always the hardest season and I must be here to make sure our orders are fulfilled before Christmas so that we will be paid on time and I, in turn, can pay the workers."

Margaret nodded dejectedly. It did make sense but did not eliminate her disenchantment. The unhappy thought that this would be her first Christmas without her parents settled over her and her eyes prickled a little at the memories of all the traditions she would miss out on from her time in London with her aunt and in Helston with her parents. Even last year in Milton, they had still kept some of their traditions and Dixon had been there to keep her mother's spirits up in Fred's absence.

"Never mind." She said, when she had pushed down the tears brimming in her eyes and the sadness in her heart. Placing the letter back into its tattered envelope, she discarded it on the arm of the couch and returned to her leather-bound book.

She was unsure how long she fruitlessly scanned the page, but eventually she was forced to admit that it was no use. The words jumbled in front of her and she had re-read the same page five times before she decided to concede defeat.

A glance up from the uncooperative pages told her John had been watching her closely as she desperately tried to absorb herself in the book, and as she finally allowed herself to meet his gaze she saw his own eyes reflected her disappointment.

"I am sorry, Margaret." He said softly as he ran his fingers through his hair and she believed him.

"It doesn't matter, John." She replied as her eyes returned to her cousin's familiar print, bold against the cream of the expensively thick envelope. It did matter really, but as there was nothing to be done about it, there was no point in making him feel guilty for something he had no control over. When she looked up again, he was still staring at her and, beginning to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny, she returned to her book, attempting the same page for the fourth time.

"You could go without me?" He offered after a long pause. "I could send Martha with you or we could ask your brother in law to come up and meet you to chaperone perhaps?"

Margaret's eyes flew back to hold his at the suggestion, her heart leaping a little with renewed hope.

"You would let me go without you?" she asked eagerly, waiting for him to realise his error and change his mind.

"If it will make you happy…" he trailed off, waiting for her to confirm or deny that the key to her happiness in that moment lay in London. "My mother will likely be with Fanny and Watson, which you would not enjoy, and I would not want you to miss out on the excitement you could have with your family. I cannot give you that here."

Margaret's heart fluttered a little in anticipation at his words. It would be just like it used to be when she lived with Aunt Shaw and Edith, but with young Sholto to add to the happiness and excitement and she could not help smiling at the vision. She was about to accept his proposition and thank him when she caught sight of how his face dropped still further at her hope, his eyes lowering as he picked up his pen to return to his work and his shoulders sagging just a little. It was barely noticeable, and Margaret wanted to pretend she had not noticed, but something inside her- perhaps her conscience, would not let her.

Margaret's relief soon turned to discomfort as alarming thoughts began to circulate through her mind. Would it be wrong to leave her husband at Christmas? Especially since he had admitted it was a busy time for the mill? Mary and the other girls did benefit from her help in the kitchen still, and the little ones often were watched by her as the others worked. As she watched the source of her quandary continue his work, his eyes glassy and unseeing and his hand tense on the pen he held tightly, her heart started to flutter again uncomfortably. This time it was that nervous feeling one experiences when they are about to do something they know they should not. Yet she had not done anything untoward. He had just offered to let her go, it had not been her idea. She wanted to say yes but something still held her back, making her doubt her decision. What would he do here alone? Would he join his mother in spending the day with his sister and Watson? Would Fanny not find it very odd that she had gone to London without John?

A ripple of pulsating guilt affected her conscience as she considered the morality of the choice she wanted to make. Before her sat the man, who had offered to marry her with few conditions and she had accepted to escape the cattle market that was London society and likely marriage to a bore of a man with no personality, who would expect her to stay at home and fawn over him from morn until night. How would it appear to him if she then left him to return to the very people who represented what he had saved her from, even if it was only for a few days? Yet she longed to see her family- Christmas was a time for family. Still, a small voice settled deep in her chest pointed out that he was more her family than Edith and Aunt Shaw were now, and she struggled to silence it.

John stopped writing, placed the pen down and tiredly rubbed his eyes with his hand. His hair stuck up at odd angles from where he had run his hand through it and Margaret watched wordlessly as he loosened his cravat and sighing reached for a pile of papers beside him and began to read through them, selecting one that he needed and resuming his scribbling on the now covered paper before him.

The more Margaret thought about it, the more she realised that if the man she had married was not to go with her, she did not feel so inclined to go at all. She wanted to meet Sholto, desperately, she really did, but not for it to be at the price of John spending Christmas alone. The thought of him unaccompanied against Fanny and Watson's derision over his decision to abstain from the speculation filled her with guilt; his only ally would be his mother. Of course, Hannah Thornton would handle Fanny without a second thought, but it would not be the same. She had promised him a partnership and partners did not up and leave the other, especially when that partner had been their salvation when they had needed one most. It hurt a little to make the decision she must make, but there was no other course to pursue.

"No, thank you. I would rather stay here with you," she replied with a sad sigh and picked up her book. The scratching of the pen on paper stopped and she was aware that he was watching her closely to check whether she was serious or not. It would not be so bad after all to miss all the Christmas fun she had enjoyed with her family, she supposed. She would just have to make the best of it with John and Hannah and even Fanny and Watson could probably be persuaded to try some of the games which were popular choices of Christmas day entertainment in London.

"Are you sure?" he asked bluntly. "I will not keep you here."

"I am sure." She replied firmly, "but perhaps I could invite Edith and Captain Lennox to visit with us at some point instead?"

"Of course," was his reply, before he returned to his task.

Margaret discarded her book and instead penned a reluctant apology to Edith, explaining that Christmas was a very busy time for the mill and imploring her cousin to visit Milton soon, knowing it would be in vain- her cousin would not come. She excused herself soon after to ask Martha to send the letter by the first post in the morning and help her undress for bed. It might have been her imagination, but it certainly felt as though her husband held her even closer than usual as she shivered in the darkness that night and she was glad of it.

…

As the church bells tolled nine o'clock on Christmas Eve, the crowd of carol service attendees filtered out of the heavy church doors and Margaret, John and Hannah Thornton exited with them. The cold air stung their cheeks as it rushed through the withered trees, urging people to walk quickly to be away from it's painful touch. Margaret had been quiet for much of the service, her mouth barely moving as she half-heartedly sang the songs she had used to love so much. She had resolved to be strong- to not mourn the absence of her parents and Frederick too keenly, but the arrival of a post card from the latter, wishing her and her new husband a Merry Christmas and reminding her of the humble carol service her Father had conducted every year on the night before Christmas at his church in Helstone had opened the flood gates of her unhappiness. No carollers visited the mill and the Christmas cheer was considerably dampened by the sickness circulating the town. Winter was harsh in Milton. It was not that Margaret regretted turning down John's offer for her to spend the week with her Aunt in London, but rather that the pain of spending what should be a happy time without those who had truly cared for her was piercing.

John too, had seemed withdrawn- melancholy- and that only served to make her feel worse. His eyes, had lost the fire that she was used to seeing and she was surprised to realise she missed it. Though she was confident his low mood was not because of her, she wanted to restore that fire, and return those blue orbs to the endless tunnels she knew many girls would love to get lost in. That she had found herself becoming lost in on more than one occasion and had to claw her way out. She did not understand the source of his sadness but wished that he might share it with her so that she share hers, in the hope that it might not hang so heavily between them any longer.

"John?" she asked.

"Hmm" he answered, distracted.

"Might we visit my parents before we return home?" Her eyes darted across the stones jutting from the ground intermittently, searching for the spot where her loved ones' bodies lay. "Their graves I mean…" she clarified. He had mentioned before that they could visit their graves together and she hoped that if she could only speak to them for a moment, though she knew perfectly well that they were not really there, then she might feel some comfort.

He nodded and spoke softly to his mother, who agreed to being escorted home by Mr and Mrs Denby who lived close to the mill. As the church yard crowd dispersed into the night, they made their way across the muddy ground, weaving between headstones. John took hold of her gloved hand and linked it through his arm and she gratefully huddled closer to him as they battled through the wind and sleet to stop in front of two lone graves residing beside a withered yew tree, where her parents rested, side by side.

They pause, neither knowing what to say. It seemed silly now to have wanted to visit- to stand beside a stone; their souls were gone- graves were merely for the living. Still, she unlinked her arms from John's and stepped forward to crouch beside them and trace the swirling lines of her father's engraved name, the stone cool and smooth beneath her fingers.

"Merry Christmas Mama and Papa." She whispered, hoping John could not hear her above the wind. She did not want him to see her pain and blame himself as he was known to do. Closing her eyes to shut out the wind and sleet, she pictured the fun she and Fred used to have decorating a Christmas tree and lighting candles on Christmas Eve Night. She thought of the joy that eating their oranges on Christmas morning would bring and the happiness she used to feel as Mama and Papa and Dixon sang carols with them and her eyes began to mist behind her eyelids.

John's voice broke through her memories, causing them to vanish as quickly as they had appeared. "You are unhappy."

"No." She sniffed and shook her head. "I was just remembering all that we used to do at Christmas before things… changed."

Out of the corner of her eye she could see him nod and knew he did not believe her.

"I think _you_ are unhappy." She stated to him, though her attention was focussed on the way the pitiful half-dead flowers that sat beside the headstones, allowed the wind to strip them further of the last surviving blooms.

"Christmas is a difficult time of year." He explained. John frowned, his brow creasing in agitation and Margaret knew he was debating whether to elaborate.

"My Father died just before Christmas…"

Margaret stepped back beside him. She hadn't been expecting that and didn't know what to say. Other than the day in Crampton when he had spoken of the hardship in his childhood when she had accused him of having his status and position handed to him, she had never heard him speak of his father. She wanted to know more, for him to trust her enough to share his real thoughts but did not know how to show him that he could trust her, that she wanted to understand.

A glance behind her showed they were now the only two people left in the yard and the light cast from inside the church dimmed as the large doors were closed. In the knowledge that no-one would see them, she pushed her self-consciousness aside and she stepped closer to him, their bodies still facing forwards, and took his hand in her own, linking her fingers with his. His skin was cold and calloused as she remembered, and her own small hand moulded perfectly to the contours of his of its own accord, as if it belonged there. Surprised, he stared at their entwined hands for a moment, before stroking his thumb across her knuckles and finally returning his gaze to the head stones.

He swallowed deeply and exhaled a large breath, leaving a trail of condensation in the air.

"When it first happened, I felt such utter hopelessness, such despair…if it wasn't for the strength of my mother…" he trailed off and Margaret's stomach flipped at the implication of his words. She could imagine his mother and her will of steel, assuring her son that all would be well, despite her own feelings of despair.

"Time heals. It is easy to push down the majority of the time, but this time of year is always harder."

Without pausing to think about what he would think or her motives for doing so, Margaret brought their joined hands up to her lips and gently pressed them to the back of his hand- just once, it was all she dared, fearing the repercussion of anything more, and retuned them to rest between their bodies. Her cheeks flushed scarlet as she drew her thumb over his knuckles, stroking the skin there as he had done to her.

He closed his eyes, screwing them shut for just a moment, as if to clear his head of some unknown phantom, before they opened, still fixed firmly in front as he continued.

"The majority of the time I am convinced that Fanny does not remember our father at all, but at this time of year she brings up that time in our lives without fail. Clearly, she has been discussing it with Watson as he came to see me yesterday, to ask for the full story about the events surrounding his passing. There are not many people in the town who know the absolute truth of what happened, but some still remember and talk. Despite how he died Fanny, will hear no bad word said about him nor allow the conversation to take on another topic once she is fixated, yet makes grand protestations about the things she claims to remember him doing for us, when in reality she was very young when he died, and she cannot remember any of it, least of all because it did not happen. To his credit Watson's questions came from his concern for Fanny, but I know tomorrow the topic will be resurrected again…"

Margaret's heart skipped a beat, at the vulnerability that lurked behind his averted eyes. She wanted to grasp at the glimpse he was giving her into his troubled past- something he avoided talking about- had even avoided talking about to her father, his good friend. The significance of the moment and how much it was costing him to lay himself bear before her was not lost on her and the self-gratifying sympathy she had felt for herself only minutes before began to dissipate as the reason for his subdued countenance began to fall into place. To her surprise, she felt for Fanny also. She understood John's frustrations- from what she knew, his father had killed himself and left his wife and two children, one of whom was barely able to walk, alone in the world with no money and a ruined reputation. Of course, it was painful for John to think of it and all the hard work and suffering he and his mother had been subjected to as a result, but it must be painful for Fanny too, to hear only the snippets of negative reports on a man she could barely remember and who was taken from her with little memories to cling to.

"Does it hurt so much to talk about him? Do you resent him?" She asked softly, wanting to understand.

"Hurt is not the correct word. Neither is resentment. I try not to resent him. His actions taught me that you must make your own future and work hard for everything you have. I could not be the master I am if he had not inadvertently ensured that I had to work for it, so much harder than most, but he was a coward. What did he think was to become of the family he left behind? Fanny was just a baby. If he could not handle the mess he had made, how were we supposed to?"

His face was hard and set, but the creases on his brow portrayed his turmoil. Her heart ached more with each new snippet of information, as keenly as if she herself felt his pain and floundered as she wracked her brains about how to stop his internal suffering. Yet, she could sympathise with his sister wanting to talk about it. There had been times since her parent's deaths where she wished she could have had an unrestrained conversation about all that that happened.

"Don't feel too angry at Fanny. Perhaps Fanny needs to remember it that way, John." She advised, hoping to help him understand that his sister did not intend to make it more painful for he and his mother.

"It may seem that you and your mother have kept the harsh realities you faced from her so well that she is unaffected by it but perhaps the memory, or at least the things she has heard are painful for her too."

"Do you think so?" he asked, unconvinced.

"I do." She nodded fiercely. "After all, I do it with my own parents…"

Admitting that felt like a stab to the heart.

"I would get angry at Dixon when she would criticise my Father and blame him for Mama's illness, but she was right. Mama was so depressed when we came here. She could not understand how Papa could move the whole family over a simple disagreement with the church. Of course, to him it was not a simple disagreement, but for her…" she trailed off, as she debated how best to phrase her mother's feelings, "her whole life was flipped upside down over the Book of Common Prayer. It was not his fault, but even at the end, Papa refused to see the effect his choice had on her…" Margaret trailed off, as she was hit by the force of her words and the truth they held. She had avoided even thinking the words for fear of the damage they would cause to her, her father, Dixon, her mother- and yet there was the truth of it.

"Margaret, your Father was a good man." John said, stepping closer to her, so that their arms where their hands were linked pressed against each other through their coats.

"And so was yours." She reassured him.

"I am not sure the church would agree with you." John scoffed, his eyes flicking towards the dark mass behind them. "He committed the ultimate sin- he didn't even get a Christian funeral ceremony or anything to mark the grave." His tone was matter of fact, but Margaret did not miss the shadow that crossed his face.

It was true of course that the church would not agree with her, but she was not so sure that they were always right. Certainly, her father had not thought so. Margaret pondered his words for a while, blinking her eyes as the sleet turned to snow, which softly fell to the ground around them and caught on her eyelashes as they made their descent from the clouded sky. The man had done something unspeakable, that was true, but he must have felt as though he had no other choice.

"Sometimes good men make bad choices," she surmised, nibbling her bottom lip a little agitatedly, "but that does not make them bad people… including your father." She inhaled a deep breath. "And mine."

Her voice faltered but she continued determinedly.

"no one on earth has the right to judge them."

Summoning her courage, she let go of his hand and instead wound her arms around his body and pulled him towards her. He resisted for a moment, unsure what she was trying to do, but then he wound his own around her and held her tightly to him. She rested her head against his chest pleased when he moved his coat from beneath her and wrapped it around her back so that it covered both of them together.

"You should remember your father for all the good things he did."

He did not reply to her advice but squeezed her tighter and buried his face in her hair. As the wet flakes fell into her hair, he pressed his lips softly to her head and Margaret took that as an agreement.

For a while, they stood together, clinging to each other as they silently watched the snow fall thicker and faster, covering the ground and settling protectively over the gravestones like a blanket of delicate lace. It was then that Margaret made a promise to herself to stop dwelling on the past and on all that was absent from her life and focus instead on the future and making Christmas special for her new family. For the first time it hit her that she was to spend the rest of her life with this man, the only person in the world that she knew with assurety that she could truly trust. They might not agree but they had promised each other that they would be a team, and in that moment, she knew for certain that staying with him in Milton had been the right decision, even though it hurt her to make it.

For once there was no underlying tension between them. She felt no fear that they were moving towards something neither could handle, just the bond that is formed between two people when what they have shared was a sacrifice of such cost that it changes their relationship irrevocably.

…

Christmas day had brought with it an influx of snow and a biting chill. John had not been sorry when it had been agreed that Christmas would be held in his house rather than having to travel to the Watsons'. It was not far, but John was not sure he could stand to hear about the new papers Fanny had chosen for the walls again, let alone be forced to stare at and compliment them over and over.

They had met the pair at the church they had attended the previous night for the short service and walked back to Marlborough mills hearing about the many gifts Fanny and Watson had bought each other.

Thankfully his Mother and Margaret had managed to bear each other's company for long enough to sort out Christmas presents for Fanny and Watson, which in all honesty with the mounting pressure at the mill had entirely escaped his mind. Margaret had asked her cousin to send some lace gloves and a shawl from London and Fanny had been thrilled by the choice, which in turn seemed to put his wife in an excellent mood. In fact, she had been outwardly happier than he had seen her since their small wedding reception. Watson had thanked him profusely for the handkerchiefs he had received, and John had tried to pretend that he knew his mother and wife had hand stitched Watson and Fanny's initials into them.

He had been completely unaware than Margaret could sew at all, but she had hand made a raven black shawl for his mother and the look on his mother's face as she learned it was not bought but dyed and stitched from cotton made by the mill implied his wife had risen in her estimations at least a little.

Charades had never been his favourite game but the enthusiasm with which Margaret, Fanny and Watson had displayed when it was their turn had brightened his opinion of it considerably and even his mother had smiled amused at the group.

Fanny had insisted on performing several piano pieces for them and everyone had applauded loudly, despite the lack of emotion displayed by the pianist. She had begged Margaret to join her in one of the duets she so loved, and she had done so, almost willingly.

As afternoon became evening, they had shared a beef dinner, courtesy of Watson and retired to the sitting room to eat the left-over fruit, nuts and other treats.

The guilt that his wife was spending the day with him and his family rather than enjoying the warmth and frivolous Christmas she might have had with her own family had threatened to eat him up yesterday, but since their conversation last night in the church yard (of all places) he had felt something between them shift and that guilt had been replaced with something akin to elation. Sharing something so private, intimate almost, with Margaret had changed something between them, there was a closeness that he had not felt before, as though they once again had a secret or something shared that the rest of the world could not have. He supposed they did since he had not shared those feelings with anyone- not even his mother and no other person on the planet could have persuaded him too.

Margaret was taking their unspoken agreement to act in love in front of Fanny and Watson seriously and had joked and laughed with them all, giggling with Fanny about how infuriating men could be and smiling encouragingly at him throughout dinner. She had chosen to sit beside him in the sitting room, closer than she usually would, with their legs touching through the many layers of clothing that separated them.

"Do you remember, John, when we were children and Father used to cut open our oranges on Christmas morning and we would eat them for breakfast together?" Fanny asked, using a knife to split hers open and carefully remove the peel.

He had been waiting for this moment after Watson had been to question him, dreading it. Yet Margaret's encouraging smile to him made it seem less painful to deal with.

"Of course," he replied, catching Margaret's eye and shaking his head just a little to show he did not. His mother's curious glance at him did not go unnoticed and he smiled sadly at her, knowing although she would not show it, the memory was perhaps even more painful for her.

"And how we would have to open just one gift each in turn, we could not just open them all at once because Father wanted to properly see our reactions to our sweets and small toys?" She bit into her Orange questioningly and raised her eyebrows as if waiting to see how her brother would react.

She did not remember that, could not. She had been merely two when he had died, but as John remembered Margaret's words to him, he found himself nodding anyway. That one at least was true, but Fanny only knew of it because his mother had told her.

"And how he would insist we attended church before eating anything other than breakfast!" she whined, and John remembered how they had pushed Fanny to church in her pram in the cold weather and he would wish for it to end quickly so they could go home and have a Christmas lunch.

"I remember that one! John moaned continuously, and your crying was enough to make everyone in attendance regret coming, Fanny," his mother added, and John smiled at her gratefully, hoping she understood that he was really trying for Fanny not to ruin her recollections by revealing the truth, rather than angry at him for indulging her fantasies.

"My Father was exactly the same," Margaret added, peeling her own fruit enthusiastically. My aunt was not so strict on such matters, but Father insisted on attending church before any gifts were exchanged, other than our Oranges. Perhaps that is why I love Oranges so much!"

"Oh so do I," Fanny joined in happily and John relaxed. If that was the end on that topic of conversation, then it had been significantly less awful than he had anticipated.

"Margaret, in London are the Christmas traditions the same as here? If there are any we do not do, I would be keen to keep up with London society."

"Well, we often play sit and read together in the evenings and although we are too late now, on Christmas Eve we stay up and share ghost stories."

"Watson, we must return home and read tonight before we go to sleep!" Fanny declared, and John laughed internally as the look of horror on Watson's face. From what John knew, the man was not particularly bookish.

"That sounds like a most attractive idea!" His mother declared standing. "I think I will excuse myself to do just that. Merry Christmas everyone. Have a good night Fanny." She leaned down to kiss Fanny's cheek before doing the same to him. Everyone wished her good night and she retreated, giving him one last smile before she left, and John knew she was telling him he had done well dealing with Fanny.

"Of course, we also would normally decorate the house far more than we have done so here. I had to practically force John to allow us to have a tree! For the last ten years at least, they have been all the rage in London. Queen Victoria always has one!" Margaret proclaimed to her rapt audience, mock sulking and pouting her red lips a little childishly. She elbowed him in mock annoyance and Fanny laughed at his surprised expression.

John wanted to joke along with her but did not know how to. This was the most relaxed he had ever seen her, and he wasn't quite sure how to react. He wasn't even sure whether it was real, but hoped it was.

"John always has been a stick in the mud, I am afraid." Fanny explained, lowering her voice as though to keep her words a secret from him, despite the fact that he could hear her perfectly. "I am surprised you picked him!"

"How complimentary," he said sarcastically to Fanny, causing her to laugh loudly at his wounded expression.

"Oh, I knew Thornton was infatuated from the moment he spotted you at the annual Thornton party!"

John's heart dropped at Watsons's revelation.

"The man could barely keen his eyes off you, Margaret! I had a good mind to believe that he did not listen to a word anyone said to him that night, such was his attention to you…"

John's cheeks coloured but he was unsure whether it stemmed from the anger or embarrassment he felt at Watson's comments. More so because the man's words were true. It was not Watson's fault of course, how could he know that revealing such a thing would be so abhorrent to the woman that had married him? How could he know that it would ruin the mere friendship he was striving so hard to achieve? How could he know that it would ruin the slow progress he was making to control his desires in the hope that he might slowly change her feelings about him.

"I have always thought my husband has excellent taste. You have just confirmed it!" His heart slammed against his ribs at both his wife's reply and the way her hand felt as she flirtatiously raised it behind him to stroke his back fondly, almost lovingly. At the contact, he shivered, but not from a lack of heat, rather the opposite. Encouraged by her actions and words, he moved his own hand to wind around her back and rest against Margaret's waist.

Watson guffawed at the joke and Fanny tittered.

"Of course, it is well known that you hated John from the moment you saw him, until you declared your love for him by jumping in front of that mob of workers…" Fanny chattered on a little maliciously, and John waited for Margaret's reaction with foreboding. There were two possibilities. Either, she would leap to defend herself from the accusation an affirm that she still hated him even then when his Mother and Fanny had assured him that she must love him. Or, she would retreat into her shell as she had done before, meeting the comment with only silence and he would bear the brunt of her annoyance later.

Her hand stilled on his back.

"You are quite mistaken, Fanny." Margaret informed her, surprising him.

"I never hated your brother. I just disapproved of some of his actions. Besides, challenging each other is good for a long-lasting marriage, I think."

"I don't think Watson and I have ever argued!" Fanny proclaimed, pride shining in her eyes and John could well believe it. He doubted Watson had ever told her "no" about anything and he was happy his sister had found that since it was what she so craved.

"I am so glad for you Fanny. But, I would not be happy marrying someone who agreed with me on everything. I think life would be rather boring…" Margaret insisted. He knew he was staring at her too intently, too closely as she sat beside him, but he could not help it. Was she simply still trying to act as thought their marriage was more than a business transaction? Or did she really think their marriage had a chance to make her happy?

"But certainly, you did not find John physically attractive. I did Watson the moment I laid eyes on him." Fanny proclaimed. It was a lie of course; Fanny had first laid eyes on Watson when she was about twelve years of old and he had been at least twenty-five. Looking smug, she possessively placed the hand which bore the wedding ring he knew Watson had spent an obscene amount of money on, on her husband's arm, and he felt a little ashamed of how much simpler the ring his wife wore was in comparison. Although, there was something gaudy about his sister's- it would not have looked right on Margaret's hand and he was glad of it as he could never have afforded something similar with their finances in the situation they currently were.

Certainly, Fanny was correct about one thing. It was true that Margaret was not attracted to him in the slightest. He knew it, had known it for a long time, but hearing it announced so publicly, in front of Watson who saw him as a rival no less, was not particularly pleasant.

"Wrong again, I am afraid, Fanny." Margaret countered, leaning into him flirtatiously and the scent of lavender from her exposed neck enticed him, begging him to press his lips to her neck and breathe her in. Instead, he tried to focus on her words, desperate for her to continue speaking and clarify her meaning. He knew her coy and flirtatious tone and behaviour was an act, but he pathetically craved it anyway.

"I always thought John was attractive." Margaret declared, and his heart missed a beat in response. Her cheeks blushed deliciously, a soft pink rising to her cream skin, and he stared at her incredulously, expecting her to avoid meeting his gaze. Instead, she raised her sparkling sapphire eyes to his, and as she did, she smiled in that way that made everything else seem completely irrelevant. It was a good job that Fanny and Watson were with them, for he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would have pulled her to him and kissed her right then and there. But then she would never have said it. The lie would not have been necessary.

"And that annoyed me innumerably more than anything your brother ever said or did to me." She finished, laughing, her gaze, only faltering a little before returning to Fanny as if it hurt her to hold the look they had shared. Her hand was slightly shaking as she so tenderly withdrew it from his back and placed it on his mid- thigh, the ring on her ring finger glittering in the light of the sitting room and John had to bite back a gasp of shock. Despite the company of the two other people in the room, who thankfully seemed oblivious, it was the most seductive thing he had ever experienced, irrationally more so than the arguably more intimate touches they had shared alone in his bedroom, and John fought to keep his ragged breathing from giving away his reaction to her touch as she softly traced a pattern on the material of his trouser leg, her small fingers still trembling. He was not sure he could bear her reaction if she was to realise just how much such an innocent action was affecting him and knew he should stop her. It was all an act! He reminded himself of that desperately, trying not to focus on how high up on his thigh she had harmlessly placed her hand or the feelings it provoked. She didn't mean any of it, she was only performing as they had agreed.

"Ahh, yes, I can believe that of you Margaret!" Watson declared good naturedly, chuckling heartily as he poured himself a large glass of brandy.

"But did you know from the moment you saw John that you were going to marry him?" Fanny tried again, determined not to be thwarted.

"No," Margaret admitted, sighing, perhaps relieved at not needing to lie again. "I certainly did not."

Fanny's smiled smugly, happy to have won. "Did you know the moment you saw me, Watson? she asked.

Watson downed his drink quickly.

"Of course, my love!" He replied, his voice adopting that of an adult humouring a child. He shot an apologetic look in John's direction, no doubt realising that John would know how inappropriate it would be if that was true, given that Fanny was a child the first time he saw her. Thankfully, John would not have thought to question it, his mind too focussed on avoiding looking at his lap.

John was extremely relieved when Fanny announced that she was tired, and she and her husband ought to be heading home and he and Margaret had been forced to stand to stand to see them off.

Once they had departed, Margaret led the way to his study and selected her book from the shelf, sinking eagerly into the leather couch she usually occupied half of.

"Thank you." He said sincerely as soon as she made herself comfortable, removing her shawl from her shoulders and leaning against the arm of the chair. He shut the door firmly behind him, to shut out the maids and the rest of the world from the conversation.

"For what?" she asked, smiling and John was momentarily disarmed by how casually she said it, as though she genuinely had no idea what he would have to thank her for, as though she hadn't just made his day the best he had experienced in a long time.

"For staying with me, when you wanted to visit your family." He replied, coming to sit beside her on the couch.

She dismissed his words with a gesture.

"For putting up with Fanny." He added, with humour, which earned him a delicious giggle.

"I actually enjoyed their company." She admitted, her surprise evident in her tone.

"And for lying to Fanny." All humour died from his voice instantly. "I think she really believed you." The room stood still, waiting for her reaction.

"About finding me attractive…" he clarified, seeking out her gaze. Her eyes widened. She blinked.

Silence. What had he been expecting her to say to that? He cursed himself for voicing that thought at all. Why did he have to ruin such an enjoyable evening? Hadn't he been making progress? Why couldn't he just be happy with that?

"And about disagreements being a positive thing in a marriage…" he tried to salvage the situation, aware that he was probably making it worse.

Silence. The small clock on the mantel piece cut the silence short as it chimed the hour and John counted the full nine counts, willing his wife to speak and rebuff him, just to get it over with.

"I did not lie to Fanny."

His heart stopped beating, and his breath caught.

"About disagreements being a positive thing…"

He could not look away from her, her eyes attempting to capture his soul, beckoning it to come closer. Every fibre of his being wanted to kiss her.

"and about finding you attractive…"

His pulse raced and his mind started blur. She was truly attracted to him? He had wanted her to say that, been willing her to and yet him mind had no idea what to do with the information! It was not the same as loving him- his brain knew that, and yet it could not help but sing with happiness that she felt something for him rather than complete indifference as he had feared she would for the entirety of their lives together, as he had signed up for.

Her lips were plump and slightly parted, and he started at them, desperate to capture them with his, but knowing he couldn't.

"I am sorry you didn't get to be with your family." His voice came out deep and horse, and he sub-consciously tried to clear it.

She shrugged her shoulders, her eyes casually wondering across his body and back to his face. Her eyes studied the ring on her left hand and her deft fingers moved to twist it around the digit it occupied, bringing a small smile to her lips.

"I did. You are my family now."

His restraint snapped, and he moved.

She flinched as he finally, after months (in truth it was probably longer) of yearning, pressed his lips to hers. After so long, he was kissing her, his heart hammering so hard that he knew she would hear it. The whole house could probably hear it.

For a moment, he froze, clutching her to him. His brain seemed incapable of comprehending what he had done, how colossal a mistake his actions could be, how roughly he had seized her waist and pulled her against him and how violently she was trembling in his arms. She hadn't run; if anything, she had allowed him to capture her in his embrace and, encouraged, his brain urged him on. Softly, as softly as he physically could, his lips moved against the plumpness of hers, caressing them as though they were truly his. A low moan slipped past his own lips as she so softly and slowly he might have imagined it, began to respond, not quite kissing him in return but not entirely passive either. His hands shook as they caressed her back and he tried to pour everything into his actions, knowing it might well be his only chance to show her he loved her, needed her, that he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything but couldn't voice it for fear that he would never hear her say it in return.

As he captured her bottom lip in his, she gasped and as if compelled by the sound he kissed her harder. Her arms had clutched at the material of his jacket, either to keep him close to her or stop herself from falling, but now her hands came to rest on his chest, and then she pushed, gently, not enough to have made him stop, but enough that he realised she was asking him to. He tore himself from her, backing away from her piercing eyes, which were wide and erratic with shock as they roamed over his body as though truly seeing him for the first time. Her chest was heaving as though she had run a mile and his own mirrored it.

"Margaret… I…" How did he begin to apologise for what he had done? Just as she had begun to trust him, he had ruined that trust, tearing it down because he could not control himself. If nothing else, he had always prided himself on his discipline, but he had failed.

"I am so sorry! I only… when you said…" He floundered, trying to explain, wishing he could take it back, and stop himself. If only she would say something, shout at him and tell him she hated him, or storm from the room but she only stared at him, her hand raised to her slightly swollen mouth and her eyes blinking in disbelief. For one mad moment, he considered kissing her again, if only to make her react. He got as far as taking a step forward before his reason screamed at him and he backed away once more.

He could not stand to see her shock turn to hatred. Instead of kissing her again, he ran.

"Forgive me…" He turned swiftly and left his office, turning to pause outside the door separating him from the consequences of his actions, He leaned against the door and closed his eyes, hoping it might erase the last five minutes from existence.

Why hadn't she just stopped him the moment she realised what he was doing? Even when she had raised her hands to his chest, she hadn't actually stopped him. She had started to respond, hadn't she? Despite how achingly soft it had been, she had started to kiss him back? He had been so sure of it, but he must have misread the signs.

The office door opened, causing him to leap back from it and gulp deeply as the source of his turmoil, walked from the room, pausing in front of him.

"Shall we retire?" she asked, the waiver in her voice that was entirely his fault filling him with guilt.

"Yes," he answered quickly, unable to meet her eye. Confusion clouded his thought as he followed her as she climbed the stairs. He was relieved not to be screamed at but somewhat alarmed by her lack of rebuke.

Their bed chamber was dark, no fire lit again, and John wondered whether Margaret knew why Martha had stopped lighting it. He made a mental note to ask the maid. With only the light of two small candles, they turned from each other and undressed, his heart sinking further as each second ticket by silently. She did not ask for his help in undressing and he started to despair, trying to reassure himself that perhaps the two things- his inappropriate actions and her unexplained ability to undress alone were unrelated. Had her dress had buttons down the front? Perhaps her corset had longer laces than normal? The rustle of covers told him she had managed all that she needed to and with a sickness in his stomach he joined her under the blankets.

"I'm sorry," he repeated sincerely, feeling he needed to say it again, to make her believe him. If she would only affirm that she had heard him, even if she did not understand.

They were back to staring at the ceiling above them, but out of the corner of his eye he could see her nibbling her bottom lip agitatedly and her brow creased with confusion. The covers were pulled up to her neck as usual, but her breathing was so heavy and disturbed that he could see the rise and fall of her chest even through the thick blankets.

"John?" She said quietly, and his heart lifted just a little as he affirmed he had heard her.

"I am sorry too." It was barely more than a whisper and made absolutely no sense to him at all. What on earth she could have to be sorry for was beyond him, but the relief he felt at hearing her say anything to him allowed him to release a breath he hadn't realised he had held.

Margaret turned from him, lying on her side as she did every night and John blew out the candles, wanting to hold her to him as had become the norm but not sure he could handle the rejection or what she would think of him doing so after what he had done.

Darkness filled the room and the soft glow of the moon reflecting on the snow-covered ground outside seeped through the edges of the curtains, giving the room a faint ethereal glow and he watched the patterns it cast onto the ceiling.

Beside him, his wife pulled the blankets tighter to her and shivered. He felt like a monster for doing nothing about it, but he would not. She would surely not want him to. Not really. It was better that he kept his distance.

"John?" Her voice pierced the silence.

"Hmm." He replied, his heart leaping as he realised what she was going to say.

"I am so cold. Could you…" She did not finish her question, but it did not matter.

Without waiting to see what the ending to her sentence was, he reached out to her and pulled her body flush against him, his face against the soft pillar of her neck. Somehow, he knew they would not speak about what had happened tonight. It made his heart ache to know she wanted to forget about something that to him had felt so right, but he fought to remember the positives, how happily she had joked with him and his family all day and the sparkle in her eyes as she had admitted her attraction to him. As long as he lived, he would remember that feeling. The image of her lips before he captured them with his own swam before his closed eyes and he fought to keep his imagination from elaborating further. For a while, he tried to think of other things, and forget his wife, but her smell made that impossible and eventually he surrendered, letting the memory fill his thoughts and he breathed in lavender until he finally fell asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Dear readers,

It has been so long! For that I can only apologise. It is a long chapter to make up for it. I struggled with this one and once again literally re-wrote it about 15 times. There was so much I wanted to say to move the plot forward. It is so long! I know you guys are lovely and often reassure me that long is okay, but this one is stupidly long even for me! Still, I think I am finally as happy with it as I will ever be.

I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading 😊

Elle. X

…

Margaret supposed she should not have been surprised that John had kissed her. There had been a couple of moments when she had been convinced that he had wanted to do so over their four months of marriage, and she had run from the possibility, both mentally and physically. The idea that he might still feel something more than friendship for her was a little unsettling, not to mention ludicrous given all that had happened between them since he had originally proclaimed his feelings. She had wanted him to like her, for them to have a marriage based on partnership and even friendship, but anything more would be too much to handle. Yet, when he had so gently kissed her like that she had been shocked, her brain unable to contemplate the reality that his efforts to keep himself suitably distant from her had shattered so suddenly. He was so composed, so unwavering in resolve, until it had crumbled- though not quite without warning. She had also been shocked that she had not stopped him, the moment she realised what was about to happen.

Rather than being angry at him for breaking his promise to keep their relationship purely platonic, she had simply panicked. She was worried that all the work they had done to build friendship between them might be shattered when that line was blurred, and she was right to be worried. John, for his part, had apologised, over and over as though it had been his solely his fault, seemingly convinced that she would blame and hate him.

Margaret was not blind to the truth. Uncomfortable as it was to admit, it had been her fault too, for Margaret Hale had spent the majority of Christmas Eve flirting with John Thornton. Margaret was not in the habit of flirting with anyone, and in the moment had convinced herself that she was just trying to appear relaxed and enjoying herself to make him happy. At some point throughout the day, it had stopped being an effort to do so and she had naturally slipped into easy banter with his family and teasing him. In fact, she hadn't directly meant to flirt at all, but Fanny's thinly veiled, although ultimately harmless, attempts to prove her relationship with Watson was superior in every way, had riled a need in Margaret to prove otherwise. How could she blame John for his actions, when she had again inadvertently implied his attention was not unwelcome? As it was, she had instantly forgiven John, though forming the words had proved more difficult when it had mattered. She'd wanted to reassure him that she was not upset and ask if they could only carry on as they had been before, but she had not known how to bring it up and he certainly hadn't. Instead, Margaret had simply pretended as though it had never happened for the most part.

Both she and John had resumed work at the mill the day following Christmas Day and the pair of them had fallen easily back into their usual routines. John rose early to leave for the mill, shutting himself away in his office, unless walking the floor of the mill and Margaret attended to her jobs overseeing the girl's preparations in the kitchen. He returned home later and later into the evening and Margaret began to suspect he was (once again) avoiding her. No, it was not outright avoidance, but rather that he was cautious, careful to avoid being alone with her, that blunt and indifferent edge that had melted away since he had found her in the graveyard that night weeks ago, re-forming now. It was not like before- this time, the pair of them existed in the same surroundings but with little connection. She always waited for him to return from work before going upstairs to bed, and they engaged in friendly conversation, usually about their experiences at the mill that day before they slept. It was companionable but no longer personal. Instead of walking alone with her after church, he invited his mother and to Margaret's dismay, she accompanied them. Margaret did not know whether Hannah Thornton knew what her son was doing, but certainly she spent more time with the pair of them than she ever had before. He did not touch her anymore and, not wanting to make him feel any more uncomfortable than he already did, she did not ask him to. Instead, it was with a heavy heart that Margaret had requested that Martha light the fire in their chamber in the evenings.

Upon returning home from the mill, she often found herself spending her afternoons at the piano which stood in the sitting room, her fingers gliding increasingly more confidently across the keys as she practiced her favourite pieces and even her part of a couple of duets Fanny had requested she learn. She had quite forgotten how much she enjoyed music and was surprised to find that with regular practise, she was improving rapidly and could almost play a few of the places without too many obvious mistakes. It was on one such afternoon that the rustling of skirts caused her to look up and to her surprise she noted that Hannah Thornton had taken a seat in a chair beside the window, with her embroidery in hand. How long she had been sat there was unclear to Margaret, but she found herself suddenly feeling self-conscious. It was silly- music travelled, and Hannah would have doubtless heard her playing numerous times, but she had never been in the same room and that seemed to make all the difference. Embarrassed, she started to gather her music together to pack it away.

"Do not stop playing on my account, Margaret." Her mother in law, said, her eyes directed to her sewing. "I have put up with listening to hours' worth of Fanny's playing, yours will be a pleasure in comparison, I am sure. I will not judge your mistakes."

Margaret's lips raised into a slight smile as she thought of Fanny's loud, if a little clunky playing, and Margaret hesitated. It seemed unnatural to play with her mother in law present, yet it would seem as though she were avoiding her if she left. She was starting to get used to the woman's company; she was in it enough. They often sat together waiting for John to return in companionable silent, but Margaret doubted whether the pair of them would ever be firm friends. Resigned, she settled back to practice a piece by Chopin. A glance behind her told her, Hannah was not paying attention to her in the slightest and so she began to play, wincing at each mistake and practicing the line until she could not get it wrong. It was slow progress, but as the room became darker and Martha entered to light the lamps, she could nearly play the music through without mistakes, though it was still slower than the composer had intended. Yawning a little, she sat back satisfied and began to pack her music away.

"When Fanny and I visited your house that day, soon after your arrival in Milton, you told us you could not play the piano."

Margaret was unsure whether Hannah's tone was declarative or interrogative.

"Did I?" she asked. She did vaguely remember such a conversation, though her recollection was a little different.

"Yes." Came the answer. "Clearly you were not entirely truthful there!" Hannah's tone had become inquisitive, but there was an accusing edge. She did not look up from her embroidery.

Margaret sighed.

"I believe I said that I have no talent for it, which is true."

Hannah Thornton raised her eyebrows at her daughter in law as she rose to pack the music in a chest beside the piano and resumed her place on the stool, swivelling to face her.

"I do not have the dedication to become proficient. As you have seen today, I must play the same thing over and over until it is passable," she elaborated at the woman's disbelieving look.

"Still, to say that you have no talent for it is, extremely unfair to yourself!" She declared. "I truly do have no talent for it; I was not taught as a child and am too old now, but to me you sound talented." If Margaret was not mistaken, her mother in law had just payed her a compliment and Margaret was unsure how to respond to it.

Silence settled comfortably between them as Martha finished lighting the lamps and left.

"I did not think I would get the opportunity to play again." Margaret voiced truthfully, having packed her music away and resumed her position at the piano. They had not had an instrument at Crampton and Margaret had not envisaged marrying or another opportunity occurring for her to acquire one, and certainly she had not considered marrying John. Without practise she would easily forget all that she had learned.

"How lucky that you do and will continue to have that opportunity." Hannah commented. "I do believe that my son was quite shocked when he heard you playing with Fanny that day."

John had heard her playing? She had stopped as soon as she had noticed him come in and had not realised that he would have heard her from wherever he and his mother were. Had he been shocked in a good way? Margaret hoped so. She would have to continue practising so that she might one day play a piece for him.

"Unfortunately, he did not have the luxuries Fanny has had and never learned himself..."

"No, of course…" Margaret trailed off. She was unsure why Hannah was speaking to her about this and quite at a loss about how she should respond.

"Perhaps that is why I am so protective of my son… he has worked hard since he was small, has given everything for this family and I wish for him to be happy."

Margaret nodded, biting her lip. Even in the beginning when she had realised that John would ask her to marry him again, she had wanted him to be happy too. There were moments when she thought that he truly was happy. She had seen the happiness shining in his eyes as he had slipped the ring on her finger, and on Christmas Day as they had laughed and conversed with his sister and Watson. Yet others were underlined by sadness and she did not know how to stop them. She wished that he might spend time with her again so that she might get to know him more and he might understand her in exchange. Until that night had changed everything they had started to spend time alone, talking about the mill, his lessons with her father, his sister, and their likes and dislikes and it had been nice to have a friend. Perhaps it was time to speak plainly with him and tell him she did not blame him for what had happened and did not see why it should stop them from continuing the partnership they had started to form. She sighed.

"Then we want the same thing." She replied finally.

The two women's eyes locked for a moment and Margaret thought she saw understanding reflected there, before the older woman's left her face and focussed on something behind her.

"Don't just stand in the doorway, John." She said, and Margaret spun around on the stool to see John stride across the room to his mother and kiss her on the cheek. How much had he heard? She searched his face for any hint but found none there.

"Have you had a good day?" He asked turning to Margaret as he came to lean against the end of the piano.

"Yes, thank you." She answered. They held each other's gaze for a moment before looking away awkwardly, unsure what else to say.

"I did not see you at all today." She commented after a pause. She did not see him at the mill often, but it was unusual for her not to see him at all.

"I was kept busy." He answered, "it has been a hard day."

"I will ask Martha when dinner will be ready." Hannah Thornton commented, before leaving the pair of them alone, giving Margaret a significant look on her way past.

Margaret watched her husband as he brushed some flecks of dirt from the top of the piano. He looked tired. Winter had been harsh this year, still was harsh, and Margaret had no doubt that the severity of the weather had made things harder at the mill too. He might not be ignoring her as he once had, but he was still distant, and Margaret had the distinct impression he was maintaining physical distance between them on purpose.

"Did anything in particular happen?" she asked, hoping to understand what had made the day harder than any other.

"A machine broke, and I spent the majority of the afternoon fixing it." He sighed as he loosened his cravat.

She remembered the bruise and cut on his chest the last time he had fixed a broken machine and swept her eyes down across the length of his body to his shoes and back up to his face. He didn't appear to be injured, just tired. Hannah's words echoed in her mind- "I wish for him to be happy." He didn't look unhappy. Considering he had admitted it had been a hard day, perhaps that was the best one could wish for. Still, the void between them was uncomfortably settled and Margaret didn't like it. She wanted to be friends.

"John…" she began, unsure how to begin.

Swallowing heavily, she stood and wrapped her arms around her husband, feeling the coldness of his clothes and the smell of the outside air that clung to them as she hugged him tightly to her, pleased when he lightly, but undeniably, reciprocated the action. Softly, he pressed her to him and brought one hand to her hair, stroking it tenderly. She hadn't been aware that she had missed the feel of being surrounded by his arms, but now she felt only completeness and the reality of the emptiness of the absence of such contact hit her.

"Dinner is ready."

They separated a little sheepishly at the sound of Hannah Thornton's voice, shy at having been caught in such a stance. She turned to leave the room quickly, but not before giving Margaret a barely perceptibly nod, which she took as approval of her attempts to make amends with her son.

Encouraged by Hannah's endorsement, she linked her arm through his, her hand resting on his forearm. A sharp hiss passed between clenched teeth and he winced at the weight of her hand, quickly withdrawing his arm from her. Margaret's eyes followed his movements, widening as they noticed a patch of scarlet, barely visible against the black material of his jacket. She stared at it as though it would vanish, softly, taking hold of his arm with both hands and bringing it closer for her to inspect. Blood. Without asking for his permission, she began to remove the article gently from him, gasping as she saw the patch of crimson had soaked straight through his white shirt.

"John, you are hurt!" she exclaimed, her small fingers working to open the buttons on his shirt cuffs so that she might assess the damage, but he pulled his arm from her.

"It is nothing." He answered, attempting to pull his jacket back on, unable to stop himself wincing again as the cloth pressed against the area.

"No, it is not!" Margaret insisted, battling with him as he tried unsuccessfully to extract himself from her. She refused to allow him to pull away again! It must have been painful for him as before long, she knew she had won. The fight left him, and his other hand dropped, allowing her to roll his sleeve up and reveal a deep uneven cut, not unlike the wound she had seen on his chest not a month ago. It was angry, the majority of his lower arm already covered in purple bruising, and still very much open, and Margaret was instantly convinced that it probably needed to be stitched by a doctor. At the very least, it needed cleaning and for the scraps of cotton in the congealed blood to be removed.

"I will call the Doctor Donaldson!" She stated, turning to find Martha.

"No." He instructed forcefully as though he was commanding one of his men in a tone that left no room for disagreement. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Doctor Donaldson is expensive, and he cannot do anything that I cannot do myself for an ailment such as this." He explained, in a softer voice and Margaret was reluctant to admit that he was probably right. Though, her better judgement told her it would be better to have the doctor check- it looked rather deep to her.

"Honestly, Margaret it is bearable." He tried to reassure her, but Margaret was not convinced.

"If you are worried, I can ask my mother to help me clean it…" He began, and Margaret recoiled as though she had been slapped. She did not want him to ask his mother to deal with it. Was he that desperate not to have her help him? Determinedly, she took hold of his other hand and led him towards the stairs. Regardless of what he said, she would not allow him to deal with it alone again or to ask his mother. She was his wife and would help him.

"Take your shirt off." She instructed as soon as they were in the privacy of their bed chamber and the door was closed. She left him sitting on the bed to tell his mother they would require just a moment and acquire some warm water and cloths and took a seat beside him. He did not refuse. Quickly, he unfastened the buttons and carefully slipped the injured arm out of his shirt and Margaret began to clean the wound as gently as she could. He did not speak as she worked, but he was gritting his teeth and silently watching her, shivering a little each time the warm water pressed against his broken and inflamed skin.

It did not take long for her to be satisfied that the pieces of cotton had been removed and nothing remained in the cut. It was not as deep as she had feared, though it was equally as bad as the wound across his chest had been and still bleeding. Tightly, she pressed some cotton against it to attempt to staunch the blood, biting her lip in concentration as she tied a piece around it and tried to both keep it tight and refrain from hurting him further.

"How did a machine hurt you like this?" she asked as she began to tie some bandages around his arm to keep the bleeding from continuing.

"I needed to climb underneath to fix it."

"Again?" she asked. How often did they brake? She was a little offended when he laughed at her surprise.

"Machines often break, and cotton becomes such in the mechanisms underneath. There is only one way to get the cotton out." He explained, wincing again as she tied the cotton into a knot over the wound to keep it pressing tightly. "When I freed the cotton, the part where it was trapped sprang back and I was not quick enough to avoid being hit.

"Is there no other way to fix them?" she asked, concerned. Blood was already lightly seeping through the cloth but much less than before and at least the wound was clean. Softly, she traced her fingertips over the spotted area, checking the bandage was unable to shift against his skin.

"There is no machinery yet able to fix this problem and not many people are willing to take on that role." He explained. "It is dangerous and cramped underneath the looms and most are unwilling to put themselves in such danger. Most of the other mill owners send children as they are so much smaller."

Margaret's mouth dropped open in horror.

"They would send children?" she asked scandalised. How inhumane! The images of the atrocities likely to affect the small bodies crouching underneath a machine and attempting to dart out quickly were too awful to think about.

"The alternative is what you see before you."

"Fixing it yourself is surely just recklessness?" She asked frustrated. There must be some other way than to climb beneath a broken machine.

"Would you have me send a child to do it?" He asked. It was a pointless question and he knew it.

Margaret did not reply. She was not happy about him putting himself in danger, but she could not advocate him using a child!

Without another word, he fully removed his shirt and crossed the room to the wardrobe where he found a new shirt and pulled it on carefully.

"You didn't have to help me, Margaret." He commented as he dressed himself, refusing to look at where she still sat on the bed.

"I know I didn't have to…" she stated, confused, waiting for him to continue.

"John?" Margaret asked as he was fastening the buttons on his shirt sleeves. He raised his eyes to hers then but did not reply.

"Were you really not going to tell me you were hurt?"

Something inside ached at the thought that he would keep such a thing from her again after everything that had happened since the first time he had done so. She had hoped he could at least trust her enough to tell her that.

"No." He replied, "I would have told you, but it was not part of our agreement for you to spend your time nursing me."

Margaret was baffled. Their agreement? What would prompt him to consider that? Such a thing had not been considered at all when they had forged their agreement in the sitting room at Crampton. What on earth could that have to do with anything?

"Our agreement?" she voiced her confusion. "We agreed to be partners. That means looking after each other, does it not? Besides, it has nothing to do with our agreement, John, and everything to do with me caring about you and not wanting you to contract sepsis!" She informed him. Sometimes he made absolutely no sense to her.

"I don't want you to think I am trying to change our agreement, Margaret." He replied seriously, his eyes boring into her own. "Our terms were clear, and I am trying to stand by them. I broke them once, but I assure you that I will not do so again."

It took her a moment to understand his meaning and when she did she felt a little relieved. So that was what he was doing! He _was_ staying away from her- avoiding any interaction with her alone, so that he could prove to her that he was keeping their agreement, in some misguided attempt to make up for his indiscretion. Any opportunity for the slightest interaction that he felt did not fit into their contract was taken away if they did not spend time together.

"But surely our contract was about partnership and friendship?" She asked, baffled. "Doesn't friendship include this, unless you would rather it didn't..." She refrained from adding that she would help any man who was wounded, having learn front past experience that it would not be received well. She knew friends did not kiss each other as they had that night, but firmly pushed that thought aside. It would never happen again anyway- he would make sure of it.

"It was…is… about that." He seemed to be debating something further; she could see his brain pondering in circles. He opened his mouth, before stopping himself and closing it again. He shook his head slowly as if to clear his mind of a ridiculous notion.

"So, you have come to care about me, have you?" he asked, his tone slightly teasing as he repeated her words back to her. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth.

Margaret's cheeks flushed, a little embarrassed. She had come to care for him, but then she had cared about him for a long time. Certainly, her feelings for him had changed from what they were. She trusted him and needed him and was grateful he had started to become her friend, but completely baffled by his changeable nature!

"I always cared about you," she announced, noticing his smile drop, barely perceptibly. "Though I may not have shown it… or even have admitted it…" she added. "Of course," she teased, "if you were to become ill and contract a fever from that wound, I do not know how I would manage. I might have to start having more conversations with your mother." He laughed at her serious tone, his smile returning for a moment.

"I am sorry I avoided telling you." He said, his eyes showing his sincerity. "I knew you would want to help me but didn't want you to feel obliged out of your sense of duty."

"I forgive you" she replied, hoping he understood that she was not only referring to their current situation, "and I do not feel obliged."

He reached for her hand.

"If, well, when a machine breaks again, could you not at least send for someone to get me, so I can check you are alright? Would it not be useful for us as partners to know about it together?" She asked, gripping his hand back.

He nodded in affirmation.

"Perhaps we should speak frankly and establish the terms of our agreement more fully, now that we have an understanding of what marriage is actually like?" Margaret suggested. She was not entirely sure whether she wanted to establish the things which were necessary to living together or eradicate the things that were not, but she felt it might help to have some clear boundaries so that they might not continuously be walking on the edge of the unknown. They could establish a final, clear set of rules that their relationship could live within and the guilt and insecurity they both seemed to feel might be eliminated.

"Yes, perhaps we should." He admitted, his gaze firmly fixed on their joined hands.

"Come, you must converse with my mother for the next thirty minutes, while we eat and then my skills in engaging in scintillating conversation are all yours." He proclaimed, dropping her hand and approaching the door. He was right, of course, they could not discuss such a thing without having the time to consider it properly. It would have to wait until later.

As they ate dinner that night, Margaret felt a shift in the atmosphere between them. It was a shift for the better, that was indisputable and yet she could not shake the feeling that they should have addressed the matter of their inappropriate clinch, whilst they had had the chance, rather than brush over it as they had. Perhaps he could not feel it, but as Margaret tried to move on and ignore the vivid memory of his lips on hers, she found it to be there still, looming over her like a dark shadow. The evening came and went and neither of them brought up the subject again, nor did they the next night or the next, and so life continued as it had, the unknown terms of their agreement vague in the back of Margaret's mind. Thankfully, both of them were too cautious to allow anything that would cause doubt between them to happen.

…

In the days following, Margaret was unsure whether her awareness of John's presence had increased, or he was simply visiting the areas of the mill that she was often to be found in more frequently. Whichever it was, she seemed to see him far more around the mill than she had previously noticed, exchanging a shy smile with him as their paths crossed three or four times a day.

She had never noticed him come down to the kitchen to eat lunch with the workers before and sit among them as though he valued them as his equals as he had done every day since their truce and she could not help the feeling of smug satisfaction she experienced as she observed her husband and Nicholas nod to each other as they sat on opposite sides of the room- two men who had been adamant to hate each other now existing in the same sphere.

Each time he would sit down with the men and watch her as she helped the younger girls serve the food and each time she felt her cheeks flush as she felt the heat of his gaze.

Of course, Margaret had known that John sometimes walked the mill floor to check on the progress of his workers and to speak to his overseers, yet she had never encountered him performing such tasks until now. For some reason, he was overseeing the majority of the orders himself.

Perhaps she should not have been surprised to see him so frequently; after all, he was Master of the mill, yet she felt a sense of accomplishment, each time they stumbled into each other's path and he commented on how much work she had achieved. It was highly likely that the fact that she no longer left the mill to return to the house as soon as lunch had been served and the kitchen cleaned, had something to do with the increase. No doubt, her mother in law would question her choice of actions, but there was something so compelling about observing the running of the mill. The regularity of the machinery clattering was almost musical and the movements of the workers. It was hypnotic to watch from the small metal viewing platform leading to John's office. That was why she stayed later and later. That and her wish to ensure her husband stayed well away from the looms. Each time she saw him, she wanted to address the matter of the rules or terms of their marriage, but the time never seemed right. Sometimes she was sure he knew she was close to resurrecting the topic, but he would not help her out by voicing it first.

To her complete surprise and delight, Edith and Captain Lennox did come to visit Milton a few weeks into the new year, bringing Sholto with them. She had been utterly convinced that after the shock of her marrying a businessman the last time they had visited Milton and their general hatred of the weather and aesthetic of the place, that they would have no interest in visiting again. Edith's hasty reply expressed her sorrow that Margaret and John could not join them for the festive season and informed her that the Captain had made time for them to visit in mid-January. Hannah Thornton's lips had pursed into their thin line of distain at the news, but she had taken it well overall, and begun preparing for their guests quickly, with only a few days before their arrival. The family would also be bringing Sholto's nursemaid and Aunt Shaw, and would be staying at a hotel nearby, rather than at the mill as Edith was worried about the noise from the machines frightening baby Sholto. They would have other business to attend to whilst they were there (much of which seemed to involve Captain Lennox collecting something for his brother, Henry, and Edith acquiring quality ribbons from a small shop in a town close to Milton), but they would spare a full day to visit with the Thornton's. Margaret was somewhat relieved by this as she was not sure she had the energy to entertain everyone for the entirety of a three-day trip, nor the inclination to leave her duties at the mill for longer than a day. It was not that she was needed there as such, but that she craved being nearer to John as he worked, for reasons that made her uncomfortable to consider.

When the door knocker finally rapped on a cold, rainy afternoon, Margaret practically sprang from her seat to greet her relations at the door. Edith pulled her quickly in for a hug, exclaiming how well she looked before turning to remove a small blonde-haired child from the nursemaids' arms and place him in Margaret's before even making it through the door.

Sholto was as much of a darling as Edith had proclaimed and giggled and played happily with Margaret, who had fallen in love with him almost instantly. He, in turn, had adored his aunt from the moment he laid eyes on her. Repeatedly, he toddled unsteadily around the Thornton sitting room and showed everyone his toy trains, delighting when they clapped and cooed at his cleverness. Aunt Shaw was in her element boasting about accomplishments he had achieved at such a young age, as if he was the first child to utter a badly pronounced word before turning a year old or walk unaided. A credit to his charm was that he even seemed to have melted Hannah Thornton's heart of ice, demanding the attention of everyone, including Margaret's mother in law, who responded not quite kindly, but certainly not unkindly by accepting the offering of whichever toy he favourited at that moment.

Margaret watched her nephew take unsteady steps over to his nursemaid, who he seemed to favour over his own parents, and sit on her lap happily eating the apple Hannah Thornton had given him to chew on. Smiling, Edith came to sit beside Margaret and linked her arm through hers, cooing at her child as she did so.

John had been unable to leave the mill for an entire day but had agreed to leave it in the capable hands of the overseer and Nicolas Higgins for the afternoon and Margaret found she was almost as excited for him to return home as she was to have her family return to the Thornton sitting room. It felt odd to be amongst them and yet not quite a part of them and she was please she had not visited London without him after all. She suspected that without his company she would have been miserable. That thought was shocking to her, the concept that a family Christmas with carols and ghost stories and charades and laughter could make her miserable would once have seemed absurd, yet the happiness of the day they have shared with his family was somehow worth more.

"I am so glad you made it, Edith." Margaret declared to her cousin, truthfully, squeezing her arm with affection. "I really didn't think you would."

"Well, we were lucky that the Captain had some free time from his duties and mother has decided not to hold a New Year's party this year," Edith answered seriously. "Of course, the fact that the Frobishers decided to hold a far grander party than we could had nothing to do with it," she added giggling quietly into her hand and Margaret could not help but smile with her, her amusement increasing as she watched her aunt instructing Mrs Thornton and Fanny (who had not been invited but appeared at the door anyway at the first hint that gossip and fashion from London would be arriving) on how best to speak to Sholto in order to encourage a widened vocabulary. After over two years of marriage, Edith still referred to her husband as 'The Captain' which Margaret found rather odd. It was so formal, yet the urge she had felt to call John Mr Thornton for as long as possible had nearly made her do the same thing. If she had not felt the need to fool his mother, she may have continued until that very moment.

Watching Sholto and pondering her cousin's relationship with her husband had momentarily made Margaret pause. Aunt Shaw had proclaimed that Edith was to marry for money and she had not doubted that, but now as she gazed at her cousin, she wondered whether their relationship was truly one she would class as a love match. It seemed rather convenient that it was both a love match and socially profitable. As she pondered her own marriage, she saw it for the first time from her aunt and cousin's point of view. It was reckless for her to have chosen such a union, even if it had truly been the love match they thought it was.

"Edith?" she asked, making the most of the distraction provided by her nephew. She was unsure how to phrase what she was about to ask, troubled by how it may appear to her cousin. "How did you know you wanted to be married to Captain Lennox?"

Edith looked at her confused.

"The same way you knew you wanted to marry John, I am sure," she replied, her eyes returning to watch her son as Fanny pulled her silk skirts from his small hands as he tried to grab it, his face determined as he scooted closer to his target, regardless of Fanny's attempts to thwart him.

"Of course," said Margaret disappointed. There was no doubt in her mind that she and Edith did not know in the same way at all. Not even close. "But, I mean the moment you realised…" she tried again, hopefully, "and when did you know that you wanted the same things from marriage?"

"Well," said Edith leaning in closer to her so as not to be overheard. "I don't think there was a moment specifically. Though I must admit I always thought he looked nice in his uniform… that was what made me wish to pursue him. And of course, his position in society made us an excellent match. As for what we wanted, I wanted to fulfil my role as a devoted wife and he wanted to be an excellent Captain and for us to grow our family as soon as possible!"

"Oh." Margaret said disheartened. She had hoped to later ask Edith for advice about the unsettling thoughts that had begun to creep into her mind, so gradually she had hardly noticed them until they hung over her, like a vulture, watching and waiting to strike. Still, she was becoming convinced that Edith's idea of love and what a real marriage should be was not the same thing, yet she had heard it proclaimed over and over by Aunt Shaw that Edith had married for love! She had been a fool to think she could share her situation and subsequent dilemma with Edith. She had wanted to before and known then that it was no use. That fact had only been reaffirmed now.

The problem was that since her husband had kissed her, Margaret had been unable to stop thinking about him in general. At first, it was due to his avoidance of her, and then it was for other reasons. At first she had blocked it from her mind- refused to think about it at all, but now that they were beginning to spend more time around each other again, that dreadful, awful, wonderful kiss haunted her waking and sleeping moments and Margaret was quite at a loss about how to rid her mind of the feel of his lips on her own, and the warmth that had threatened to overwhelm her as his hands had roamed across her body. Part of her had wanted him to kiss her, just to know what it would feel like. Now she knew she almost wished she didn't. She had though that if they had agreed that such contact was inappropriate in a union such as theirs, then she might be able to forget it had ever happened, but she had still not had the courage to bring the topic up again and had realised, anyway that such a hope was pointless. No matter what rules they constructed, she knew she would think about that for a long as she lived.

"What are you two talking about?" Fanny asked, coming to sit next to Margaret, smoothing her skirts as she did so. Evidently Sholto had been distracted by something other that the expanse of her skirts.

"Margaret was just asking when I knew I wanted to marry the Captain." Edith explained.

"Oh, I knew I wanted to marry Watson as soon as he asked to court me. We are an excellent match, everybody said so…" Fanny added, her words eerily close to Edith's. Margaret's lips curled up just a little as she remembered how Fanny had proclaimed she had loved her husband the moment she saw him not a week ago. Clearly, she had forgotten that conversation.

"I am not sure anyone thought John and I were a good match…" Margaret said attempting to hide her despondency.

"Oh, I knew you were from the moment you told me." Edith declared, and Margaret was thankful for her cousin's tact. She lowered her voice. "Of course, I knew Captain Lennox wanted to marry me when he kissed me. I suppose perhaps that was when I knew. I wasn't disgusted like I was when Tommy Lomax- that awful boy mother tried to match me with- kissed me…" she practically whispered, to Fanny and Margaret. "I couldn't even bear to look at him afterwards."

Margaret considered that. Her cheeks surely coloured a little as she was forced to acknowledge that of all the conflicting emotions she had felt when John had kissed her, disgust had not been one of them. Guilt and unease and longing and fear as she had registered the longing she felt, but not disgust. As for looking at him, if anything Margaret had looked at him more…

"Did you have the opportunity to kiss many boys, Miss Lennox?" Fanny asked Edith interestedly, leaning in to the two girls conspiratorially.

"Of course, many would have liked to kiss me. I did not allow many, just Tommy Lomax as my mother so wanted me to give him a chance- his parents are extremely rich- and of course my Captain Lennox…"

"Ohh yes, I felt quite the same about Watson." Fanny joined in, never one to be out done, though Margaret got the distinct impression that she was saying whatever she thought she needed to impress Edith.

"You're absolutely right." Margaret said pretending to be pleased with their answers, realising that to pursue the line of conversation she was hoping for would be entirely pointless. She twisted the ring that still felt foreign on her finger round, finding the action comforting as she accepted that whilst John had told his mother of their unusual agreement and attempts to blunder through, she must live alone with the secret.

The slam of the front door alerted them to the arrival of another and without thinking Margaret rushed over to greet her husband before he could make it into the sitting room, helping him out of his coat and hat. From the moment she had received Edith's invitation to London she had longed for her family, craving their company but now she was once again with them, she was reminded that she did not belong with them any longer. Instead, she felt as thought Fanny was more of a match with her own family and she and Hannah Thornton were the outsiders. It was a relief to have John home as another person, who would did not belong in their group.

"John, you remembered!" she proclaimed, gratefully. For a moment he scrutinised her as she bobbed on her heels in front of him. Then he scooped her to him, making her breath catch in her throat, and kissed her cheek softly. His lips were cold and sent a shiver down her spine. She stepped back, dazed, her hand rising to the place his lips had touched. She had not expected his guard to be lowered so suddenly and in such a manner as to kiss her even as innocently as he had.

"The last time you greeted me thus, I unforgivably offended you. Have I done so again?" He asked, genuine concern crossing his features.

Now she recalled. She had vowed never to greet him in such a manner again. She had quite forgotten in her joy that he had remembered to return on time.

"Of course not," she smiled, her heart fluttering at the smile she received back.

His eyes looked her over from her neck to her shoes and back up to her throat and Margaret was pleased she was wearing a particularly pretty dress. Finally, her full mourning period was over, and she was wearing a lilac dress accented with the required black trimming in a similar style to her wedding gown. She had picked it because her family were coming to visit, and she knew Edith would like it, but now as he husband assessed her she wished she were able to wear something in more attractive colours.

"Do you approve?" she asked twirling in front of him.

"You look beautiful." He told her, his eyes lingering intently on her face and Margaret's heart fluttered at the intensity of his gaze.

"John." The booming voice of Captain Lennox interrupted them, and Margaret sprung back self-consciously, bringing her hand to her unsteady heart. Her brother in law firmly shook John's hand and the pair might have settled into deep conversation had Edith not handed Sholto to John the moment he entered the room, without asking whether he wanted to hold him, much as she had done to Margaret. She had not managed to speak to Edith alone after that as attention had returned to Sholto who instantly warmed to John, sitting happily on his lap and shrieking with laughter as he bounced the small boy up and down on his knees.

Margaret's eyes watched John closely as he moved to sit on the floor with her nephew, heedless to the effect it was likely to have on his clothing. She had never given much attention to the physical appearance of any of the gentlemen she interacted with- it had never crossed her mind to focus on something so unimportant, but now Margaret had to admit that she liked watching John Thornton. Or rather, did not necessarily like it, but did so nonetheless at every opportunity as though compelled. He was so full of contrasts that Margaret found him an especially interesting subject for studying. At the mill, his walk was a little intimidating, self-assured and purposeful and his tone showed that he did not care to suffer fools lightly. That same confidence extended to her in the increasingly frequent moments she saw him at the mill, regardless of whether they were alone or in a room full of workers. At home he was more relaxed, somehow softer and more human and (although they had not spent much time alone recently) he spoke to her in a way that implied he was trying to be careful. The man before her now was the latter, relaxed in the present company and softer- careful. There was still something intimidating about his stature but not threatening and Margaret fought to reconcile the two versions in her head.

Admitting her physical attraction to him, (in front of Fanny and Watson no less!) had not been her intention. She had barely admitted it to herself, but the happiness of the day and the ease she had felt in their company had lowered her guard. She often watched him- the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he talked, the darkness of his hair against the pale skin of his temples and neck, and how his brow creased when he concentrated. Now, she watched his interaction with her nephew a little wistfully, a small smile forming at the sight of the child's delighted face and John's heart-warming smile as he was presented with the favoured train. Captain Lennox clearly adored his son and had spent much of the afternoon boasting about how he was sure to follow in his footsteps and become a Captain but spoke to him as though he was a grown man, not adapting his language at all, which was rather amusing to observe. John, however spoke to him like a child, responding naturally to Sholto's limited language and engaging him in something akin to a conversation throughout their game.

He glanced up and caught her watching him, but Margaret did not look away ashamed. If anything, she had focussed her attention harder as she was gripped, quite suddenly, by a rather disturbing thought. For the first time, it occurred to her that John had given up so much more than just marrying for love when he had chosen to help her. That was why it had troubled her so when he had kissed her; it reminded her that he had given up a physical relationship with someone who could return it equally. Yet, he had given up still more than that- he had relinquished the chance of ever bouncing his own child, no doubt dark haired and blue-eyed, on his knee and having his son follow in his footsteps to become a mill master. Guiltily, Margaret watched the tender image of her husband as he interacted with her nephew and, now as their eyes locked across the room, she wondered whether he felt the loss keenly. If he did not already, he would one day. She knew it like she suddenly knew what the 'exciting news' Edith had written of in her letter was, though her cousin had not yet voiced it.

"Of course, you have all this to look forward to, John!" Captain Lennox declared, his chest puffed out with pride.

"I cannot wait." John was completely unfazed in his reply, flashing her a dazzling smile that made her stomach flutter. "Though I think we will enjoy each other's company alone for a while longer," he added, and Margaret could not help but be impressed with his strategic handling of the comment.

"I am not sure that I wish to share her yet."

Margaret saw Hannah Thornton's eyes turn to her at the comment and she met them determinedly, expecting to find judgement there. Instead she found pity, which was so much worse. What could Hannah have to pity her for? She must feel pity for John, but there was no reason for her to pity Margaret.

"You must persuade him, Margaret. Sholto needs a cousin to visit with!" Edith added, looking pointedly at Margaret.

Edith had made similar comments following their wedding and she had felt uncomfortable about them, but now her stomach squirmed violently as it hit her with full force that the joy that having a baby in the household could bring, would never grace their home.

"I am not sure I wish to be shared either…" she teased coyly, pushing down her discomfort.

Captain Lennox laughed heartily and gave John a couple of good-natured slaps on the shoulder. "Very wise, Thornton." He commented, and John winked at her. Margaret swallowed deeply.

"What is the news you spoke of in your letter, Edith?" She asked, wanting to hear her suspicions confirmed. "You must not keep me waiting any longer; now you can tell me in person."

"Well…" she began, making the most of her rapt audience, "the Captain and I are expecting another child in June!" she declared, directing a look of complete adoration at Captain Lennox and Margaret's chest felt oddly hollow at having what she already knew affirmed. "I am convinced that it will be a girl this time."

Margaret was not a jealous person- she did not covet the possessions or opportunities of others and yet she felt the cold stab of jealously nonetheless as she gazed at her cousin's happiness, while Fanny and Mrs Thornton congratulated her and gushed about the joys a daughter would bring. Aunt Shaw, babbled happily about how she was relieved not to keep it a secret any longer and Margaret hugged her cousin, uttering her own well wishes and hating herself for the slight prickle of ill feeling she felt that Edith's marriage might not have 'love' in the form Margaret imagined it, but it had children.

"Watson and I intend to start our family very soon. I expect we shall have an announcement before the end of the season," Fanny announced, never one to be outdone, but Margaret was not listening.

She had not missed the way John had been watching her reaction, but she would not acknowledge it, for fear that he would see through her façade. Thankfully, everyone else's attention had remained focussed on Sholto, and soon John's too had been captured by the child. Throughout dinner, Margaret was able to remain silent, her mind attempting to understand her jealousy, without being noticed.

By the time the Lennox's and Aunt Shaw were ready to return to their hotel and say their goodbyes to Margaret, she remained none the wiser about her own emotional response but when she congratulated her cousin and Captain Lennox once more and told Sholto she loved him, she meant it with all her heart. That night as she felt the steady rhythm of John's breath against her neck, Margaret's chest still felt a little empty and her mind troubled.

…

The grandfather clock chimed ten times, breaking the quiet of the study. John sat at his desk, for once reading for pleasure rather than hurriedly reading through papers relating to the mill, as he seemed to do endlessly.

It had been a tiring day at the mill and Margaret knew John's arm was hurting him from the grimace that crossed his face as he accidently pressed his arm against the table. She was still convinced it had required stitches but still he refused to allow for Doctor Donaldson to be called. As a result, he was still left with a deep gash in his arm and an array of purple and yellow bruises surrounding it.

In the hearth, the fire crackled and danced and Margaret watched from her place on the fabric covered couch, mesmerised by its flickering flames.

She had received a letter from Edith informing her that they had made the journey back to London safely and that Sholto was missing his auntie. The letter rested on the arm of the chair beside her and her book had been long discarded in her lap as her mind replayed the memories that dominated her thoughts; the feeling of Sholto in her arms as he squirmed to turn his small body around so that he might not miss out on any of the action, the sight of her husband playing with the child on the floor of the sitting room, with no regard for the creasing that his clothing would receive, as if he was holding his own son, and the joy she felt as the childish laugh reverberated throughout her whole body and the sound of Hannah Thornton's voice as she wished for her son to be happy.

Finally, it became clear to her what must be done. After weeks of pondering, everything suddenly seemed completely clear, as though she had been a fool blinded by stubbornness and was granted the ability to see.

"Do you want children?" she asked him off hand, as if she was asking whether he wanted a cup of tea.

John raised his eyebrows curiously, but he did not look up from the book he was holding. He did not answer immediately, but Margaret waited patiently. She knew he was constructing an answer rather than intending to disclose how he truly felt, and she wished he wouldn't.

"When I asked you to marry me, I was fully aware that I would not get that opportunity." He finally said.

His eyes were fixed unwavering on the page and it appeared to Margaret as though he was trying to pretend to be disinterested, but she knew better. He had stopped reading- his eyes were focussing on a single spot, rather than scanning across the page as they should have been, and glistened, glossy and unfocussed; she knew she had captured his attention. It was the first real conversation they had engaged in since Christmas that was not focussed on the mill and Margaret had been pondering how to start such a discussion for much of the evening, her mind going over and over what she needed to say.

"That does not answer my question!" She persisted, refusing to be annoyed by his pretend nonchalance.

He looked conflicted for a moment, searching her face as if to spot a falsehood, before giving the resigned sigh she was used to hearing when he was trying to humour her.

"I would have liked to have children, yes."

It was both the answer she expected and the one that hurt the most to hear.

"Why?" She asked, curiously.

His brow furrowed at her interrogation and his eyes narrowed in thought.

"Because I think they would have made me happy," came the answer after a long pause.

"And you have accepted that you will never have any?"

Without marking the page, he shut the book with a thud and placed it down on the desk in front of him.

"Yes. I have." She believed him. There was honesty reflected in his eyes and above all resignation. She searched the endless blue for any sign of sadness but could not find it.

"I meant what I said when I asked for your hand, despite recent evidence to the contrary…" He swallowed hard and she watched as his Adam's apple bobbed and his eyes swept over her figure from head to foot. They were assessing rather than longing but Margaret knew he was thinking about what had happened the last time they had spoken to each other in this very office.

"…which does rather stop any chances I might have had." He pointed out as his gaze followed hers to the fire and the shadows it cast into the room. "I am sorry, if I made you think I was revoking our agreement. I should not have behaved so."

So, he was still concerned about that. Margaret had hoped she had allayed his fears, but it appeared not. It was time that they straightened things out, no matter the consequence.

"What brings you to focus on this delightful topic now?" He asked, leaning back and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair.

For a moment Margaret did not answer, doubting her intuition on how to approach such a thing.

"I would have liked children also." She tossed the words into the room and waited. It was a simple statement, but her words were steeped in sadness, more so than she had expected.

His forehead creased unhappily, and he folded and unfolded his hands in front of him. "Then I am sorry to have taken the opportunity from you." He said. "You would have made a good mother."

Hearing his words hurt. Margaret debated whether his answer was exactly what she had expected or a colossal disappointment. Perhaps it was both.

John had returned to his book, but she knew he was not reading. Instead he was alternately glancing between her and the text, not leaving enough time between to truly take in any meaning.

"I think I still want to have children." She spoke to the fire, not knowing whether she was really addressing herself or him. It was embarrassing to admit she had been wrong on the train to Oxford when she had assured him that by marrying him, she would not be missing out on anything she wanted. At the time, she had believed she was speaking the truth. The problem was, she hadn't truly known what she wanted, then. Truly, she hadn't wanted children with him, and hadn't wanted them with any-one else. Then. The act needed to create them was not something she had been interested in, not something she had wanted to think about allowing someone to do to her. It still terrified her; Edith's words that you needed to do it a lot to make a baby had run through her mind as she considered what she was missing, but John wouldn't hurt her and that picture of him holding their baby refused to shift, no matter how earnestly she tried to erase it.

"I _know_ I still want to have children." She clarified with more conviction.

She heard rather than saw him exhale slowly.

"With me?" He asked, genuine confusion and an edge of exasperation lacing his words.

"No John, with someone else." She retorted sarcastically, her despair evident in the dramatic tilt of her head.

"Margaret you had better tell me outright. What are you saying?" There was a warning edge to his tone that he often used with his workers and Margaret was unsure whether, deep down, he truly wanted to know what she really meant at all.

"I didn't know it would be like this..." She gestured uselessly around her as though that would clarify what she meant. "Well, I didn't think I wanted any of it."

How was she to explain?

"the way you were with Sholto…" She tried to lay bare her thoughts and found it was far harder than she anticipated. "I mean that you were so natural with him…" she tried again. "If I had children, I'd want them to have you as their father."

John stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the wooden floorboards. He walked around his desk to sit beside her on the leather couch and Margaret watched him. He was still commanding, even with his cravat loosened and the top button of his shirt unfastened. He sat as far from her as he could, but his body was angled towards her so that he could study her face carefully.

"You see I was wrong, John. I thought a traditional marriage- having children was about possession, about a man owning a woman, you owning me, but it wouldn't be about that at all. It would be about what you promised. It would be about a partnership…" Her cheeks had begun to heat and suddenly she felt as though she was about to cry. Her embarrassment at having to admit that she had been so prideful and wrong was overwhelming, but she would not allow herself to be so weak.

"Margaret, you do know what that would involve? What I'd have to… what we'd…have to do together?" He asked quietly, and Margaret shivered at the implication, her breath catching as she imagined herself replying "no" rather than "perhaps we should go to sleep" as he asked her if she wanted him to stop in the manner he had that night as they had clung to each other in their underwear.

"Yes, John, _I_ am not a child!" Annoyance prickled her skin, like hundreds of little needles, but it was not at John. Rather that herself and that she had allowed herself to end up in such a situation. Yet, if her request was something he did not want, why did he not just tell her so?

"Margaret…" His voice was quiet and pained, as though speaking about such a thing was causing him great effort, "I promised you that you would not have to. We agreed…"

His stare was so penetrating it was almost painful to be its subject.

"I know what we agreed. If you do not want to change it I will not blame you, but if we both wanted to change the agreement? Surely it would not be wrong to do so… if we both agreed, together?" She implored passionately, almost pleading.

Her heart hammered, making her stutter as she shook her head to clear her thoughts. "I am not sure I can continue as we have been without set terms no matter what your feelings on this matter are. We must agree them; we could even write down the terms if you would like..."

John rose from his position beside her, and paced the length of the room and back, running a hand through his hair as he did so.

"And that is definitely what you want?"

She had known she had wanted it from the moment she had set eyes of Sholto and the desire had cemented when she had seen her husband interact with him. She didn't want to deny him that, if that was what he wanted. Nor did she want to deny herself anymore.

"I want you to be honest, John." She stressed as plainly as she could. "I would only want to if you did too. Do not agree just because you think it is what I want."

He was silent for a long time, the only sound the flicker of the fire and his shows on the hard flooring.

"I do, Margaret."

She sighed in relief.

"I always did! Do not forget that I wanted a traditional marriage and everything that involves but I knew you did not want that. I wanted…"

She did not find out what else he wanted as he did not finish his sentence. His forehead was creased in contemplation and Margaret knew his thoughts were as erratic as her own.

"Then I am asking you to change the terms of our arrangement to include trying to have children at some point in the future." She stated plainly, tired of never saying what they really meant.

He continued pacing, his agitation radiating from him. He stopped, looking directly at her, his eyes boring into her own with such intensity that she flinched.

"I want you to be honest with me too."

"I am!" she declared affronted. How could he doubt her? Surely, he could see that she had never been so frank with anyone. Could he not see how much it hurt to lay herself out completely bare before him?

"When we are together, and things happen between us, when I hold you at night or when we embrace or when I kissed you, you freeze or shrink away from me. Do you not feel anything for me when we do that?"

Her cheeks flushed with heat as the memory of the way her skin tingled, and her heart raced resurfaced. Of course, she felt something- it felt like falling towards the unknown and she was powerless to resist- something inevitable, which she was not ready for. She could not bring herself to admit to him that she was scared to surrender to those feelings, as she feared she would fall in love with him- the side of him he had shown as he spoke about his father and the mill and his fears and his reaction as she had admitted her attraction for him and again as he had played with Sholto made her heart ache and allowed longing to develop. That was why she had hoped to speak to Edith; everything was muddled, and she didn't understand how she felt anymore. Was she falling in love with him already? Or was it just gratitude? She had been so sure of how she felt and what she wanted and now it was all jumbled up.

In honesty, she had no idea how he even felt about her anymore. If he still loved her, or even felt as he did then surely, he would not have offered her a marriage without physical contact and children. How could he bear it? She had not fully fallen in love with him (if that was what her feelings were), yet and still she had been unable to bear the unknown as soon as she had allowed herself to acknowledge that her feelings had changed. She couldn't tell him how she felt- not yet. If any semblance of his prior feelings for her remained, she did not wish him to hope for nothing. She could not understand her feelings, how could he?

"You seem to want me to, yet you offered me a partnership without any of the feelings associated with that. I have asked you why before, but you said only that I knew already. I don't John, so if you answer my question I will answer yours."

His eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Why did you ask me to marry you and give up everything you could have had?"

He may have shied away from answering her before, but he did not now. Instead, replied without a moment's hesitation.

"Because I was, and still am, in love with you."

Her heart raced in response. She had half- hoped that would be the answer, half- dreaded it.

"Marrying you under any terms was better than losing you forever. I could not bear the thought of you marrying someone like Henry Lennox."

She had known that was why. Now she realised that deep down she had known it all along. His anger and jealousy of Henry had been plain for all to see, but like a child she had dismissed it as him wanting to take ownership of her and ignored it. Subconsciously, she may have encouraged it even. Now she felt foolish and the sharp sting of guilt.

The fire in the grate had been waning for a while and now it spluttered and died, plunging them into darkness.

Amongst the gloom, she could hear John rustling to find a match, a small candle bringing little light to the room.

"It is after midnight." He stated staring at the clock on his desk, in the absence of her reply.

Without speaking further, he motioned towards the door and Margaret quickly exited through it.

Despite everything, he loved her. Unlike the first time she had heard him say those words, she was not offended, but rather overcome by the magnitude of such a statement. Perhaps it was inevitable that she would love him back eventually. Maybe it was written in their very souls, but if he loved her still, why would he not let her have the chance to fall in love with him? It would be so easy, if only they spent time together away from his mother where they could truly be themselves and get to know each other, if only he would trust her with his doubts and worried, rather than shutting himself away with paperwork.

The softness of blankets beneath her alerted her to the fact that she was sitting on a bed. How she had made it into their chamber she was unsure, she supposed her body had simply gone through the motions to lead her upstairs.

Her heart implored her to tell him how she truly felt, that she was in danger of falling if would only let her, but she couldn't do it. It would take time and she couldn't stand the pressure of him waiting for her to tell him she loved him too. She couldn't say it- not yet.

He joined her by sitting beside her on the bed and watched her patiently as she debated, not rushing her thought process and Margaret made her decision.

"Will you answer me now? Do you not feel anything for me when we touch?" He asked again.

Her heart rate quickened still as she raised her down cast eyes to his. Shame prickling across her skin.

"Do you think I would have kissed you back if I didn't feel something?" She asked, quietly. It was not a declaration of love, but it admitted a little of her heart's longings.

Even as she said it she had known he would kiss her again. It was possible that that was the very reason she had said it.

Finally. Relief flooded through her as his head dipped to hers and he seized her lips in his own causing her eyes to flutter shut. But, this was not the soft, lingering promise of Christmas; this was urgent and intense, and Margaret froze in panic as her fear returned. She had been wrong in thinking that if he was to kiss her again, she would know what to do. His familiar smell was all around her, something about it, making her want to get still closer to him, but she did not know how.

He must have sensed her reluctance, for he pulled away from her, leaving her breathless and somehow colder. Some inner turmoil was evident on his face as his gaze roamed over her body, pausing to linger on her heaving chest.

"Margaret, I…"

Scared he would leave her alone with her confusion, Margaret quickly pulled him back to her and clung to him, even as he tried to turn away, her trembling hands gripping the lapels of his jacket. She released a soft moan of relief as the fight left him and he kissed her again, his own much deeper moan mingling with hers as their lips reconnected. This time it was softer, more like it had been the last time they had found themselves in this position-gentle and if Margaret had been in any doubt about whether he wanted to kiss her again, she could be in doubt no longer. The idea that at one point she had been willing to pretend their last encounter had never happened and happy to allow him to refrain from doing so again seemed ridiculous. She could not simply forget and move on from such a thing. There was that feeling of falling, but it was not unpleasant. She wanted to let it happen.

Carefully, his hand moved, caressing her through the material of her dress to possessively splay across her back and the other was in her hair, his large palm against her neck and his fingers entwined in her dark tresses making her knees weak. His scent surrounded her, intoxicating her, and she gasped as she realised how much she had craved this in the week since she had come to be aware of its existence. Tentatively, Margaret started to kiss him back, as she had tried before, encouraged by the shuddering breath he released against her lips in response as his hands gripped her tighter. John was kissing her! She was kissing John! If he possessed her, then she possessed him too- John Thornton- the man who she had married and whose touch and attention she craved far more than she had ever imagined she could.

Of their own accord her hands made their way to his neck, her fingers lacing their way into his dark hair, mirroring his own actions and the others stroking the skin exposed at the top of his jacket, causing him to release another moan against her lips and kiss her harder. Margaret was vaguely aware that she had begun trembling rather violently as John's attentions became more passionate, his lips caressing her neck and beneath her ear, stealing her breath completely. His hands moved, as if to still her shaking, to settle on her waist and somehow, he pulled her body down with him, shifting her so that he angled her back until she was lying down against the softness of the bedclothes, her head resting against a pillow and his body pressing down onto her as he lay on top of her, their legs entwined. Still he continued to kiss her, her lips, her neck over and over, pausing only so that they could catch their breath, which seemed deafening in the stillness of the room.

It was too much, and she couldn't do it- not yet, but to stop him might push him away from her again. She tried to make herself relax but it was no use.

"John, I can't!" she breathed, kissing him one last time. Her voice sounded quite unlike her own.

"I have not changed my mind, but I am just not ready for that… yet."

Resting his forehead against hers, he struggled to catch his breath.

He nodded, clearing his throat and lifting his weight from her. He stood, removing his cravat and jacket and draping them across the back of a chair beside the bed.

She wanted him to understand that she hadn't meant to encourage him to only stop him yet again. "I just couldn't go on any longer without speaking to you about it."

"It is better to wait until the mill has fully recovered anyway." He declared thoughtfully, "I am hopeful if we can just get through the winter…" He trailed off, unfastening his shirt buttons, still slightly breathless.

"Are things so bad still?" She asked tentatively, her mind still clouded as she attempted to reach behind and loosen her corset strings.

He nodded. "But we have several orders that should help," he explained.

It made sense- all the pouring over documents and scribbling number and locking himself away in his office. She wished she knew how to help the situation but knew that realistically there was nothing she could do. Her curiosity urged her to press him further but it was not the time. He would tell her when he was ready.

Without prompting, he crossed the room and began to help her with her clothing. His hands no longer shook as they used to, but his fingers worked clumsily over the buttons, stopping at just the right point for her to be able to slip the garments down over her hips and step out of them.

It was only once both had slipped under the covers and watched the shadows cast by the fire had begun to die out that Margaret realised they had not really established the terms of their relationship at all. She didn't suppose it mattered anymore.

Instead of turning from her husband and hoping he came to embrace her, she turned to her side facing him, and lay her head against the hard pains of his chest, watching as it rose and fell beneath her cheek with each intake and release of breath. Instinctively, their arms came to wrap around each other, and he pulled the blankets up higher to warm her, as he cradled her against the warmth of his body.

"You will tell me when you are ready?" He asked into the silence, as the final embers of the fire died out, plunging the room into darkness.

"I will tell you." She confirmed. "One day I will be."

"How do you know?" He asked teasingly.

"I know everything," she joked. She couldn't explain it without admitting that she felt more than she had revealed. Thankfully, he didn't question her further. That night, Margaret dreamed of telling her cousin and aunt that Sholto and the new baby were to have a cousin, the shrillness of their delighted shriek piercing even in her imagination.


	15. Chapter 15

My dear readers, thank you for all your lovely reviews and amazing messages of encouragement to continue with this story. I have no plans to give up on it- I have just been so busy recently. I won't bore you with my personal life, but I had some sadness in my family and other priorities took over as a result. I should be back in the game now and looking forward to the distraction writing gives me. I hope you are not too angry with me for the long wait. This has been a hard chapter as it is sooo important. I will say little more on that at the end of the chapter so I don't spoilt it now. It's another long one.

Happy reading! Elle x

…

Whilst the vicar's monotonous sermon on repentance provided rather dreary background noise, John Thornton looked over at his wife sat beside him, a modest distance from him on the pew, and smiled at the expression of boredom displayed on her face. His mother had found herself afflicted with a headache that morning and chosen to remain at home and John had made the most of the opportunity to have time alone with his wife to ponder the changes that had come about in their relationship.

Margaret had finally given him something. It had taken months- over a year, in fact, from the moment he first told her he loved her, for her to even suggest that she might possess the capacity to care for him more than she did any random man she interacted with on the street. Now, finally, after more months of waiting, she had admitted that she felt something for him in their physical interactions, which only made him want to make her feel more.

He should have known that she would regret her decision to accept his request of a sham marriage- it had only been a matter of time. Of course, her embarrassment at asking him to allow her to have children had not been lost on him. In truth, he had not comprehended what she was requesting until she had specifically asked him to change their agreement to include them. In that moment, the world had seemed to stop spinning. Even now, his mind was so jumbled, a mesh of contradictory feelings in response to her request. Truly, she could have asked for the moon and he would have agreed to give it to her, with no idea how he could fulfil such a promise, but his will to do whatever she asked did not stop the confusion and anxiety he had felt ever since.

What exactly did she want from him? If anything, he felt less clear about this than he had before. By all accounts, she wanted children and friendship, but if she truly felt something when they had shared limited physical intimacy, could that not mean that she might one day be capable of loving him? Of wanting him as much as he wanted her? No matter what her motives were, the fact that the concept of bearing his children was something she had craved strongly enough to change the original terms of their agreement, had been the sole focus of his mind in the weeks that had passed since that night.

Perhaps he should thank her maternal instincts for the subtle but significant changes that had quickly followed in her demeanour towards him, for, although their physical relationship had not developed into the promise of things shared only between a husband and wife, hadn't even come close to that, he had been acutely aware that she was touching him more. Each moment of contact, had been completely innocent. Almost. Her hand would often brush against his as she served his tea in the evening or handed him some paperwork at the mill, lingering for longer than was necessary in a way that he knew was entirely deliberate. Each time a slight smile played at the corner of her mouth, her cheeks blushing a delicious shade of pink, and John felt himself consciously struggling to keep his thoughts under control as he remembered the feeling of those hands against other parts of his skin.

He lived for the secret smiles they shared as the passed each other from a distance at the mill or as she spotted him sitting with the workers and desperately tried to forget that there was a strong possibility that this could not last- that he was eventually going to have to tell her that they could not afford to keep the kitchen running for much longer or face financial ruin. Business had not picked up at the mill and although they were not in irreversible trouble yet, precautions needed to be made.

Her small fingers now stroked fleetingly against the skin of his neck as she untied and removed his cravat before bed, her teeth nibbling her bottom lip as she studied him whilst she performed the simple action, before returning to her own attire and leaving him missing the scent of lavender that invaded his senses with each close interaction. One night he had struggled to loosen the wretched thing and she had determinedly taken control, unknotting the stubborn fabric, her touch soft, almost caressing, despite her concentration. He had never struggled so to remove the article before, but he craved the opportunity to be close to her without pushing her to do something she was not yet ready for, and so the knots became more and more elaborate and harder to untie every night.

Then there was the softness of her lips pressed delicately against his, for barely longer than a moment, before he left for the mill in the mornings on the steps of the mill house door, away from his mother's eyes- another secret that only the pair of them knew- one initiated routinely by her that thrilled him far more than it should have. It was a simple thing, hardly scandalous, yet progress nonetheless. If she had placed such a kiss in front of others he would had dismissed it, it was hardly unchaste, and she had done so numerous times before in the façade they performed, yet alone in the doorway it made his heart skip, and he craved the feeling of hopefulness that had begun to accompany the look in her eyes as they met his. The look that almost fooled him into thinking she would pull him back to her and kiss him again, before she wished him good day and he turned from her, headed towards the mill.

At night, despite his best efforts to think of other things, the way she had once let him press his body against hers through the cotton of their clothes, the way her breath had caught in her throat and the way her body had shuddered and her eyes widened on the occasions he had brought his lips to her neck, was all he could see running endlessly through his dreams. He always felt relieved when he woke prior to her and could attempt to control his longing before she could notice. More than anything he yearned to see that reaction again, to feel her shudder in his arms and to hear the wisps of sighs that escaped her lips as he kissed the side of her neck, just below her ear- a sound that only he knew existed. It seemed like years ago that he had foolishly thought that she would give herself, unmarried, to another, but he felt the relief of it again now. That physical sign was what gave him hope most of all. That was how he had suspected she felt something. Even when she had kissed him back, she had been guarded, not cold but absent somehow, but that had been different. He knew that in the heat of the moment (until she had restrained her-self once again) she hadn't wanted him to stop.

A few days after their conversation, she had come to him and they had redefined the terms of their agreement. It was a surprisingly easy conversation, with far less embarrassment than he had expected- just two friends making arrangements together. They would wait until the mill had made it through the winter months and, when she was ready, they would begin to try for a baby. John had no idea what Margaret's understanding of how these things worked was, but he had felt it necessary to check she understood that they would need to be intimate more than once, and perhaps for a few months before achieving the result she wished. He had had half expected her to change her mind. Instead, he had been surprised, that she had hardly batted an eyelid and simply stated that she was already aware of that and her wish remained the same, if his did, blushing attractively, but not ashamedly.

Other than that, they would go on much as they had been. There would be no requirements of either of them, but they had agreed that physical contact was inevitable between two people who functioned in such close quarters. To his surprise, Margaret had been the one to specify that if physical contact (such as had happened spontaneously already) was to happen again in the meantime, then neither of them needed to feel guilty but must stop the other if they wished to. The slight catch in her voice as she had said it caused his vanity to pridefully choose to believe that she rather hoped such contact might happen. He was well aware that now it was a real possibility, the act of consummating their marriage still terrified her more so than ever, and supposed she felt that smaller moments of intimacy might help her feel less afraid. Another man in such a position might have been pleased, and made the most of such vulnerability, but not him.

Despite their agreement and his desire to kiss her (amongst other things), he had refrained, pushing down his want. The only contact they had engaged in had been originally dictated and controlled by her and that was how he intended to keep it. He had promised to wait and wait he would. He had told himself he would give her the children she wanted, go through the motions if needed, but one day she would want him to make love to her.

John could not help but think that the new agreement was more a marriage than most of the couples he knew shared, which only added to his confusion. All that was missing was for her to love him back. Then again 'love' was the one thing that was missing in most marriages. He hoped it would not be absent from his for too much longer. Perhaps if they created children together, their bond would be strengthened, and love would follow.

An annoyed cough interrupted his thoughts and his attention was stolen from staring shamelessly at his wife to the owner of the cough who was sitting on his other side. Fanny rolled her eyes at him and tutted so loudly that he was not surprised his wife was now staring at him questioningly as were Mr and Mrs Miller with their four children on the row in front. John didn't particularly care about Fanny's disapproval and simply shrugged at the Millers and Margaret before ignoring his sister completely and pretending to focus the entirety of his attention on the priest.

"What was the commotion about behind us, Fanny?" Mrs Miller asked nosily as the congregation sung the final hymn with gusto, creating a cover for their conversation, and John rolled his eyes. No doubt she had been waiting eagerly for the chance to get any gossip she may have missed.

"Oh, John was simply staring at Margaret quite inappropriately for someone who is in the house of the Lord, Mrs Miller," Fanny answered, self-righteous judgement seeping into her words. She paid no heed to John and Margaret who were sat beside her and clearly able to hear every word. John's annoyance flared. It was only jealousy that caused his sister to react so strongly to such a minor thing.

"It seems your brother has no problem with inappropriate actions when it comes to the new Mrs Thornton," Miss Latimer added, leaning forward to add her opinion from the row behind. Her tone was jovial but the expression on her face displayed smug satisfaction as she turned her gaze to him and John had no doubt that she was referring to the innocent embrace she had observed once before between he and his wife in the same grave yard that they would exit through in a matter of minutes.

"I had overheard something a little scandalous not too long ago…" Mrs Miller added, turning to look Margaret up and down critically, without even a pinch of subtlety.

John felt his anger peak, but before he could give the women around him some choice words, a hand was on on the back of his neck, caressing his exposed akin, small fingers softly playing with his hair silenced him. Margaret had moved herself closer to him, one arm resting on the back of the hard, wooden pew draped around his back, where it delicately attended to his hair and the other slightly tentative hand came to rest across his legs where it intertwined with his own, squeezing tightly in encouragement.

She leaned into him, close enough that he could feel her breath against his ear and whispered, "Might as well give them something to gossip about, since they're going to anyway." Softly and deliberately she kissed his cheek, her lips lingering longer than was decent in public, and John breathed an amused sigh. The now comforting smell of lavender, invaded his senses as her head came to rest against his shoulder and he rested his own on the softness of her hair, making the most of such harmless closeness.

Mrs Miller's eyebrows raised so high up her large forehead that they almost disappeared into her hairline and she uttered a scandalised, "well, really!" loudly, before her husband shushed her and physically spun her torso so that she was forced to return her focus to the front of the chapel. John could not see how Miss Latimer had reacted, if indeed she had reacted at all, but the silence from the row behind implied she had decided to mind her own business for now.

His mind longed to wander, to focus on how long it had been since he had last kissed her and what the reaction of the local gossips might be if he was to kiss his wife in full view in the wake of the Sunday service, but he would not let it. Instead, he brought his attention back to the chorister who was desperately trying to keep the congregation singing in time with the rather slow organ accompaniment.

When, finally, the service was over, Margaret sat up properly and John helped her into her coat before adorning his own and saying goodbye to Fanny and Watson.

"Can you believe it? In church no less!"

"They weren't exactly chaste before the wedding, if Ann and Jane are to be believed, so I was hardly surprised…"

Within seconds Mrs Miller and three other women John did not know had formed a coven, the former presenting the fresh gossip ready to be devoured.

John did not waste time to hear the distain of others. Swiftly, grabbed Margaret's hand and pulled her with him, down the aisle of the church towards the exit, thanking the priest along the way and tipping his hat to Mr Hamper and his wife. His strides were purposeful and long and Margaret seemed to have to perform a slight jog, in order to keep up with him.

"John, are you quite alright?" she asked him, with a confused laugh, as he finally slowed down once they had left the confines of the church yard gates.

"Sorry," he apologised, aware that his actions must have seemed rather odd. "I just didn't want you to hear anymore of the poisonous words spewing from those women. I know how it upset you last time people were gossiping about us…" he explained, remembering the look of sadness on Margaret's face as Fanny had relayed all that the housewives of Milton were speculating on at his dinner table.

To his surprise, Margaret smiled deeply and attractively giggled into her hand.

"How thoughtful for you to think of my feelings but I really couldn't care for the idle thoughts of women, whose own marriage must be a colossal disappointment for them to be so obsessed with ours! Mrs Miller has four children, for heavens sake, she can hardly be shocked by… well… that…"

John could not help but smile back at her. How different this Margaret was from the one he had known mere months ago. He was inclined to think that over these past few weeks she had been the happiest he had ever seen her and as she took his arm and began to lead the way home John too felt happier than he had in months, perhaps years even.

"It is precisely because they do not have any ounce of love in their marriages that they are obsessed with any sign that others' might!" He told her, noticing the way her cheeks coloured at the word 'love'. It was still too soon to have hoped she might love him yet, he knew that, but there seemed to be no point in hiding his desire for her to love him back at this point.

A slight cloud passed across her face and she turned to look back towards where her parents lay in the ground.

"I wonder what my father and mother would think if they knew what a stir I seem to constantly cause…"

John wondered what on earth had made her think of her parents at that moment. She had not mentioned them in weeks, but he knew from personal experience that they must be there at the back of her mind- in her thoughts constantly, though physically absent.

"I think your father (at least) may have known a little of what a stir you have a tendency to cause in Milton, Margaret." He replied teasingly.

"What makes you say that?" She asked sharply, and John inwardly cursed for having inadvertently backed himself into a corner. Of course, it was a subject that was still sensitive for her! He could make up some excuse about her father having witnessed the storm that seemed to rage between Margaret and himself whenever he visited her father for lessons, but it would be dishonest. That was not what made him suspect Richard Hale had known of his daughter's headstrong ways.

Sighing, he stopped and turned towards her.

"Do you remember he wrote me a letter, whilst he was in Oxford?"

She nodded thoughtfully, her teeth troubling her bottom lip and waited for him to continue.

"He was a little worried about… well, he had some troubles on his mind … and may have mentioned them to me."

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing negative, I assure you, but I think he may have known his daughter better than you think…"

Her large eyes studied him carefully and she nodded but did not look convinced.

"I have told you before that you are welcome to read it, Margaret." He reminded her gently. "Perhaps it is time?"

His wife did not reply, but he could see her determination reflected in her eyes. She wanted to read it. John racked his brains to try and remember what exactly it said but found he had paid so little attention to it that it had completely evaded his memory.

It did not take them long to return to the mill house and John led Margaret upstairs to the small dressing table in their bedroom, where the letter still lay cast aside. The parchment was open, her father's red wax seal still in tact on one side of the envelope and John watched her reach for it and run her thumb across the bumps of the hardened wax. For a moment, she simply stood, staring at the white paper as though it was something precious and he simply watched her, not wanting to rush something that seemed to affect her so. Finally, she opened it and began to read.

"Remember, when I asked you to marry me again, I had not read its contents yet, Margaret." He interrupted her, bringing her gaze back to him for less than a second before she continued reading. Suddenly, he felt anxious, as though her knowledge of the contents would affect her opinion of his character. He watched her eyes ravage over the words and waited.

 _Dear John,_

 _My friend. My only friend in Milton, in fact. I am sure you will think me mad when you receive this letter- I will not blame you if so. Having spent some time with my dear friend, Mr Bell, I have had much occasion to ponder many things and one of them is your relationship with my daughter. I am old, John, and without my darling Maria here with me, I know I am not of strong enough heart to continue in this life for too much longer. This leads me to worry about the fate of my poor daughter, Margaret. She is passionate and loving but stubborn and too naive to realise the consequences of her words and actions and I fear she has already fallen victim to vicious rumours about her character. I do not know what she is supposed to have done, but I know any wrong doing on her part will be through her wish to help others and not through any impropriety. I have shared my fears with Mr Bell and he seems to be utterly convinced that you once hoped to marry Margaret and I believe that I too may have noticed some of the signs of such feeling in your countenance? I hope you are not offended by my words, John. Truly, I wish no offence, and if I am wrong, please ignore my ramblings. If, however, I am right, I must implore you, when the time comes for me to depart this earth, please find it in your heart to make her an offer of marriage. For all her facades, Margaret is still very young and in need of guidance and I fear you may be the only man who can both stand up to her and care for her as she needs. Please, John, when I am no longer here, she will have no direct family in England, no financial support and a reputation that is in decline. My wife's family will offer to look after her, but I fear that would only condemn her to a life of misery. I only ask that if you have even a shred of amorous feelings for her, that you take care of her in my absence._

 _I wish this letter was a little lighter in content! Alas, I have been thinking to deeply on mortality and therein lies my downfall. I suppose that it what comes of reading too much Plato!_

 _Best wishes,_

 _Richard Hale._

John knew she had finished reading, but her eyes still focussed on the words and he shifted, uncomfortably, desperate to know what she was thinking.

"Are you alright?" He asked her gently, coming to stand closely beside her.

"I admit it is a little upsetting to read that my father had so little faith in me…" She said softly, offering him a sad half-smile. "Sometimes ignorance is happier, I fear."

"That is not how I read it at all." He told her truthfully. "I think Richard Hale was rather proud to have had such a strong daughter and only wanted her to be with someone he hoped might be strong enough to challenge her." He elaborated softly. "I think he knew full well that someone who could not match you in spirit would tire you easily and was fully aware that you would find only that in London."

She seemed to be pondering all that he said as she re-read her father's words.

"Thank you." She said at last. "If that is what he was truly saying, then he was right. Perhaps you knew him better than me in the end."

He shook his head at her words.

"I think you know that's not true…"

Gently he took the letter from her, placed it back into its paper casing and replaced it on the dresser.

"You know, when he wrote to me informing me of all he was going to say to you, I hated you…"

Despite her use of the past tense, John felt her words like a stab to the heart. He had suspected she had hated him following his proposal, believed it right up until she had accepted his proposal, but hearing her confirm that she had felt such abhorrence for him hurt, even now. Yet the source of her hated was something completely out of his control.

"It was not your fault of course, my hatred was entirely misplaced, but knowing you were the final person he metaphorically spoke to on this earth, rather than me or Fred, truly hurt. I was immature and jealous…" she admitted honestly.

He nodded, swallowing heavily at her confession.

"That is why I was so convinced you must hate me and where only proposing because of his letter. Until our wedding day that is… I fear, I always have been too passionate and lacked the ability to control my emotional responses."

John remembered the heated conversation they had shared in the carriage back to the mill. A turning point of such significance that he hadn't truly understood at the time. He wanted to comfort her somehow and tell her than she had him and Fredrick but did not want to re-open the wound of her brother's fate. As for her passion, if only she had directed it towards him in a positive way, rather than through disgust.

"Do you still hate me?" He asked, only half serious.

Margaret's forehead creased, and she studied him, her expression one of incredulity.

"No, John. Of all the things I feel about you, hatred is not one of them!"

Every neuron in his brain wanted him to ask her what that meant. What specifically did she feel for him? Yet, some-how he knew she would not tell him.

"Do you still feel passionately about me?" He had intended to keep his tone light and joking so that she might refuse to answer, and he flinched at the seriousness and bluntness that infiltrated his question instead. It was not even what he truly wanted to ask, but rather as close as he dared to get.

Her eyebrows raised a little and she fixed him with a stare of such intensity that he felt as though she had caused heat to infiltrate his veins. She pursed her lips a little and he could almost see her mind turning over and over as it formed a response.

"I feel passionately about a great many things and I fear that it will be my downfall." She answered, confidently and he nodded, trying to hide his unfair disappointment.

"I am trying to be better," She added to herself, as though she had missed his meaning completely. "Do you think my father would have disapproved of my behaviour in the church today? Would he have disapproved of me causing more scandal to befall my reputation?" She asked out of nowhere, her eyes focussed back on the letter.

"No, Margaret," he assured her firmly. "I think he would have found it ridiculous, and after all, it was Fanny tutting at me that started the whole thing. Besides, it was worth their tattle just to see Mrs Miller's look of disgust."

She smiled at that, a small giggle escaping as she remembered the expression in question. Determinedly, she moved from him towards the door, turning back to him as she grabbed the handle before walking away. She did not mention the incident or their conversation again.

…

It was barely a few weeks later, as the February darkness fell over Milton, that John's hand clenched the paper he was holding before him, crumpling it around the edges with a vice-like grip. Why was it that just as soon as he finally had reason to hope that the fractured pieces of his marriage might be about to fall into place, his financial dealings began to explode so spectacularly around him? John felt numb as he read the letter from the bank for the fifteenth time, his eyes not truly focussing on the words. He knew what they said by heart. Far too well he knew the significance- the magnitude of what they would mean. He had always prided himself on his resolve and determination to see past the trials he had been dealt, his mind always on the success he sought but in the cold, loneliness of his office, he could no longer force himself to muster such strength.

The thing that hurt most of all, more than losing his pride and livelihood was knowing that he had brought the only woman he had ever loved down with him. It hurt so much more each time he admitted just how much he loved her- how far he had fallen (further than he had known was possible)- because of the misery that he felt every time he gazed into her eyes and realised that that smile would not be there when he told her that no matter how ardently he fought to keep the image of the family she had asked him for in view, it faded as he realised it was increasingly likely that he couldn't give her the children she wanted. He had wanted them too- wanted them from the moment he had realised he loved her and needed her and as she had begged him, so he had vowed that he would save the mill and give her what she wanted if it killed him. The blow was all the more agonising because of how far their relationship had come. In the last few weeks John had really started to believe that it actually might happen. There had been times when she had embraced him softly under the cover of the darkness of her room and he had wondered whether she was going to tell him she was ready. He had been so sure it would not be too much longer.

His eyes returned to the tyranny of the black cursive in front of him and John Thornton was forced to admit that he had failed. The bank wanted their money and he did not have it- nor was he going to have it in the allotted time. He had begged them for another extension, assured them of his belief in the profitability of the mill, but they would not budge. Without a miracle, there would be absolutely nothing left to try to save. Everything he had worked, struggled and sacrificed for was slipping away into darkness and there was nothing to grab onto. He could make more cuts at home and in business, but it would not be enough. There would be no house for any children to live in and no money to feed them for a long time. In six months, the bank wanted their money and then they would lose the mill forever.

For the first time in his life, John Thornton wished he was a gambling man. If only he had bought into Watson's speculation, his financial troubles would be over and when she was ready he would try to make Margaret happy! If only…

Deep down he knew that it was madness to think in this vein. His wife was livid enough to find out he had considered such a thing, and he dreaded to think of the fall out had he actually agreed to such a frivolous whim. She might never have softened towards him if he had betrayed her in such a manner, which would have been worse- far worse.

Still, his hands clenched into fists as he thought of the inevitable hardships to come and the impossible task of both telling his wife and mother they were to be effectively homeless, whilst he was forced to start again at the bottom of the chain. Despite the pounding his pride would receive, no doubt Fanny would appeal to Watson to find him a position at his mill, but it would be for a meagre wage and they would be forced to sell much of their furniture, and acquire a much smaller residence, smaller perhaps than the one he had helped Richard Hale and his family to secure in Crampton and with no stability. It would be a life of scrimping and saving and hard labour and John felt unbelievably old as the enormity of the task ahead towered over him.

He wanted to shut himself away from the world, to revel in his despair, but perhaps it was for the best that he could not. One of the other mill owners, Hamper, was holding a party that evening at his residence and he, Margaret and his mother had been invited and already agreed to attend.

Thankfully, it was unlikely that anyone else would know of the dire state of his finances yet, but if they were to fail to attend, questions would be asked. It was far better to bear the torture and put on a united front rather than avoid contact at all.

With once last painful glace at the paper, John discarded the letter onto the top of a pile on his desk and shut up his office, to return to the house.

How on earth he would muster the strength to keep up appearances for the evening, he did not know, but he knew for sure that the party would be far easier than telling Margaret the truth once and for all.

When he entered the house, he could hear her playing the piano, the symphony drifting across the hallway from the sitting room to where he stood, drawing him in. Soon, such a sound would be absent, the instrument sold, and all it had come to symbolise-the happiness Margaret had begun to find in his house- would be ruined.

He could not face her yet. He was too much of a coward.

Determinedly, he mounted the stairs to his bedroom and set about making himself look presentable. Even after washing and dressing, he dithered, avoiding his fate until the clock beside the bed chimed seven thirty and he knew he could circumvent it no longer. Like a condemned man, he made his way to the sitting room, following the sound of her playing.

The sight he was greeted with arrested him in the doorway. Each time he saw her, he thought her more beautiful, but dressed in a pale blue gown, with her long, dark hair softly pinned up, so that wisps had escaped to rest about her face and shoulders, her beauty was enough to cause his troubled mind to momentarily forget the afflictions that lay in wait and simply stare at his wife, committing every detail to memory, as though he would never see her again.

The chime of the clock on the mantel piece, reminded him of what he must do, and his breath caught in his throat as he came to sit beside her on the piano stool, even as she continued to play and his heart broke as she leaned into him, just a little. Boldly, he placed his hand gently around her waist, ready for her to flinch away from his touch, but she did not. The usual scent of lavender that lingered on her hair was missing, replaced with something sweeter, perhaps honey. John did not know whether it was a permanent change or just for tonight but something about it matched her completely and he knew he would recognise it anywhere.

With the last few melancholy notes, Margaret finished playing, and for a moment, she did not move. Despite the stillness of the room, the atmosphere felt heavy and now that they were both sat in silence, John was acutely aware of how closely they were situated and that his hand was still possessively resting on her rib cage, high enough that he could feel her rapid heartbeat through the material beneath his fingertips.

"I've missed you," she whispered, finally shattering the silence. A small but wistful smile adorned her face as she turned further into him and his heart plummeted deeper, when only yesterday it would have soared.

"You look…" He trailed off as his eyes, swept appreciatively across her open neckline and slender shoulders, nearly exposed, except a thin lace lining. He swallowed deeply at the pink flush that crossed her cheeks, extending down to her neck and the skin across her collar bones under his scrutiny.

"You look so beautiful," he told her honestly, his voice breaking, "everyone is going to wonder why on earth you would marry me."

"I suppose you look appropriately dressed too…" she shrugged, pretending to be nonplussed, before breaking into a small smile at his lack-lustre attempt at mock outrage.

Her face fell a little and she bit her lip and John could see a thousand thoughts running through her brain as she assessed him. Her face and body were just inches from his and as she brought her eyes back to his, John knew he was in trouble. He tried desperately to remember what it was that he was supposed to be telling her and why, but he seemed to be unable to remember anything other than the intensity with which she was looking at him.

"Kiss me," she whispered. It was a command, not a request and it broke his heart.

"Margaret…" he began, tortured. He had dreamed of this, the flush to her cheeks, the quick rise and fall of her chest and her breath held in anticipation. Everything in him implored him to oblige without a second thought, but, how could he? If he did not tell her all now, it would be so much harder after they had shared even a few moments of physical intimacy. He had no choice but to disclose all to her now, regardless of how it would bring the world crashing down around them.

"Please, John," her voice was thin and barely audible, but her desperation was evident in her pleading blue eyes, a longing he had craved but never before seen displayed there reflected back at him.

Without allowing his common sense to stop him any longer, he twisted her body around on the piano stool so that they faced each other, and he kissed her. He kissed her as though he was the tide following the command of the moon, grasping the glimmers of passion he knew she was capable of. As if of their own accord, his hands shakingly ventured to places they had not dared go before, and she sighed breathily in response, her hands making their own tentative exploration across his clothing. The discordant sounds of a variety of keys being pressed simultaneously as he shifted her body to lean her back against the piano, filled the stillness of the room, interrupting his thoughts and bringing him crashing back into the present.

Begrudgingly, he pulled back a little. "We need to talk…" he spoke against her lips, fighting to remember why he couldn't allow this to continue without telling her everything first.

"We don't have to go tonight…" she said quietly, blushing furiously, but her eyes never once left his and his heart skipped a beat as he realised the enormity of what she was trying to tell him. Now she wanted to try for a child with him? Just as he had realised he could not give her that? With a desperation he had not seen in her before, she pulled his lips back to hers, her hands in his hair as she kissed him in a way that told him that she was not going to ask him to stop or tell him she was not ready this time.

He had to cease this and tell her of the mill. Breathing heavily, he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers for a moment and just breathed with her. Gradually John's mind began to clear, and reality returned.

"We don't have to stop," her eyes were no longer closed, but rather wide and imploring. "Please John?" she begged, and he moaned in frustration. Was this some sort of cruel trick? Some plot meant to torture him?

"We can't do this," he voiced, the words weak and cracking; the restraint required to stop her was almost painful. His breathing was laboured and his chest heaving as he struggled to gain control of his senses.

Swallowing deeply, she nodded and allowed him to pull away from her. Her own chest was heaving, and the skin displayed by her low neckline was still flushed and John tore his gaze from the appealing sight.

"John? Margaret? Are you ready?" His mother called from the hallway as she clattered around with something on the other side of the closed door and John cursed, withdrawing to the other side of the room.

He was too late. How could he tell her now? He knew Margaret would not forgive him if he did not tell her before his mother and he understood why, even though it would affect his mother as much as he and his wife. It was different for Margaret, of course. She had no-one to tell, but if she was to speak to her cousin or aunt about something that had a direct effect on his life, without consulting with him first, he would feel betrayed.

"We must leave now!" his mother declared, as she burst through the door and John informed her that they would be out in just a moment.

If she noticed anything amiss, his mother was ever tactful and did not mention it, nodding agreeably and heading out of the door to wait in the carriage.

"Margaret…" he began as soon as he was sure his mother could not hear, but his wife slammed the piano shut, her jaw set, and she walked briskly past him. Without a glance in his direction, she followed after his mother to the waiting carriage.

In silence he follower her. Neither of them spoke for the entirely of the journey, whilst Hannah Thornton took intrigued glances between them, no doubt assuming they had argued and were displeased with each other once again.

Still they did not speak to each other, even as he offered her his arm (which, surprisingly, considering her cold demeanour towards him, she took) and he escorted her into Hamper's home, indirectly introducing her to various people he did not care to talk to.

When they were finally alone on the outskirts of the room filled with people conversing in groups, they stood together, neither looking at the other as he wracked his brains on how to begin to explain himself to her. Sighing softly, she leant into him, taking his arm in her own. Her anger seemed to have left her now and been replaced by regret.

"I'm sorry," she whispered self-consciously, her cheeks flaming, and her eyes focused on her hands; John suspected she was trying not to cry. "You didn't want that, and I should have accepted your wishes as we agreed."

He shook his head, not believing what he was hearing.

"I shouldn't have expected you to…" she swallowed loudly, and her eyes looked frantically around the room. "I knew we weren't really going to…" she trailed off unhappily, and John released a deep breath of incredulity that after the very thing he had dreamed of had started to happen, he had been forced to ruin it.

"Please don't hate me, John."

His mouth dropped open in disbelief. Each word made him hate himself more and more as it hit him just how enormously he had failed her in every sense by deluding himself and her into thinking that their finances would get better. He had known deep down that they would not.

"Oh, Margaret," he began, leaning into her to be sure that only she would hear, "if you only knew just how much I want that! If you only knew just what I've imagined doing to you..."

Margaret blinked, her eyes focusing on him wide with confusion at his words.

John cursed himself for being so ungentlemanly. He should not be thinking of her in such a way in the first place, let alone telling her, and the guilt he felt at having done so, still doing so as he noticed her fear, only added to his torture.

"Just, please, let me explain everything as soon as we return home and I promise you will understand why we had to stop." He pleaded as a tear fell from her still- wide eyes and he miserably raised a hand to softly wipe it away. Relief flooded through him when she nodded, before she was beckoned over to join a group of young ladies by Fanny and left him standing alone, with his self-contempt.

Alone, he watched her laugh with the other ladies and fawn over the beauty of Fanny's fan and dress and wished they could have stayed at home and continued what they had begun.

Other mill owners and gentlemen of the town tried to fruitlessly make conversation with him throughout the evening, though John knew he was lousy company, and he soon lost sight of his wife. When she returned to his side, making easy conversation with those who came to socialise with them, and it became apparent that she was no longer distraught, John started to relax and enjoy the feel of her hand on his arm and the faint scent of honey in her hair.

"Your mother has left with my sister, Thornton." Watson's voice and hand held out in greeting diverted his attention back to the room and reminded him they had not arrived alone. He had quite forgotten his mother had been with them. "My wife is feeling unwell and your mother has taken my carriage home with her. I do believe she will be staying the night at our house."

He was pleased she would not be there when they returned home. It might make his task easier.

"I do hope Fanny is not too ill?" Margaret inquired, her genuine concern for his sister evident. It was unlike Fanny to leave a gathering early for fear of missing something of great importance.

"Oh, nothing serious. Just the usual tiredness and sickness. Fanny and I are expecting a baby in July."

John felt the word "baby" like a stab to the heart and his eyes flew to his wife's face.

"Oh, how wonderful!" He heard her say, but the sparkle in her eyes dimmed, just a little, giving her true feelings away.

"Isn't it?" Watson, replied as he poured himself another drink and consumed it in one.

"That is one blessing of your dire situation, I suppose, Thornton. At least Margaret is not with child. The expense of that extra burden would be even more financially crippling!"

Margaret's eyes flicked towards him at the mention of her childless condition and her cheeks flamed red, perhaps as she remembered how desperate she had been for him them to forget Hamper's party and attempt to rectify that very thing.

"Watson…" John's tone was harsh- dangerous- and he felt her shiver at the sharpness.

Watson, however, seemed unaffected, simply pouring another drink.

"Of course, if you had only agreed to join in the speculation, then you would not be losing the mill, John! I did try to tell you, but you thought you knew better…"

His wife's eyes widened, confusion crossing her face, then rage directed at him, and his anger at Watson and whoever had told him of his situation flamed. He did not know what to say. How dare Watson, speak of such a thing in public at all, especially when he had barely found out himself? He wanted to apologise to Margaret, to explain and beg for forgiveness for not telling her himself, but he would not give Watson the satisfaction of seeing that. Instead his eyes met hers, pleading and sorrowful. She must have seen his sincere plea as he saw her face soften a little, though her brow was still creased. It was a testament to how much she had matured that she did not confront him at all, or storm away from him in some dramatic fashion.

Watson was waiting for him to speak, staring at him with pity and John could not abate his anger any longer. He could not stand to be pitied.

"Who told you?" He asked, his fists clenched and his tone still dangerous, even as his wife tenderly took his hand, a warning to calm down.

"Mr Grimshaw, at the bank. We met together this morning. As we are family now, I think he hoped I might help you with a loan to get you started, as you'll have nothing..."

His face creased with distain and he sought out the gentleman in question on the other side of the room.

"Mr Grimshaw had no business sharing my circumstances with you. He barely shared them with me this very morning!" He fumed, frustratedly running a hand through his hair.

"Do not be too harsh on him, John." Watson had to reach up a little to pat him on the shoulder, causing John to flinch back. "Afterall, this is your own doing. The speculation was your way out of this- the way out for all of us following a strike such as that! I told you over and over- even at your dinner table, if you remember..."

John could do nothing but shake his head.

"I am sorry you have been affected by this misjudgement, Margaret…" Watson rested a comforting hand on Margaret's arm until she shook the man off and moved closer to John, her distain seeping through.

"There is nothing unwise about refusing to enter something as risky as a speculation, Mr Watson." Margaret spoke coolly. "I would far rather be destitute but know my husband's conscience is clear than have all the wealth in the world and know I have married a man who is willing to bet the livelihood of hundreds of men, women and children on a mere speculation." She spoke quietly but firmly, avoiding his gaze.

"John, I feel a little unwell myself, perhaps we should thank Mr Hamper and retire?"

Watson scoffed a little but did not attempt to rebuke her, simply wishing her good health and him a pleasant evening.

John did not trust himself to speak again and so gritting his teeth he followed his wife's lead out of the party and into the carriage. Her face was blank and her eyes unseeing as they rode the short distance through the Milton streets and John knew it was better not to speak until she had processed the severity of the situation. He had been a fool to think that such misfortune would remain private in Milton, for even a few short hours! Of course, someone would know. He cursed Grimshaw for telling his brother-in-law, cursed Watson for telling wish wife and himself for not telling anyone.

…

Margaret's head was reeling. They were to lose the mill? To lose everything? How could that be? He had told her the mill was struggling, several times in fact, but he had never made any indication that there was a chance they could lose it! How had she not known how bad things must have become? Was that why he had stopped her advances earlier? Had he known they could not afford too fulfil their new agreement? She supposed that he had tried to talk to her before the party, to tell her himself and she had been so angry at him for doing so. It had taken so much courage to lay herself before him like that and days of talking herself into it and it had hurt to be rejected, when she had thought he would be pleased.

It was not long before the carriage came to a halt and, silently, they made their way into the house, locking the front door and retiring to their chamber, without pause.

"Margaret?" He called her name once the door to their sanctuary was closed, the fire already lit and finally she turned to him, sinking onto the bed and patting the space beside her for him to join. He looked tired, his eyes heavy and burdened and his body hunched as though carrying a great weight. Dejectedly removing his dress jacket, he took a tentative seat beside her, rubbing his tired eyes.

"Please believe me when I say I wanted to tell you." He began, his voice rasping as though it was protesting against having to explain at all.

"I was going to tell you when I got home from the mill. That's why I stopped… what we were starting. It had nothing to do with me not wanting to continue that…" he trailed off sadly and Margaret believed him. With that assurity the intense embarrassment she had felt at the time and carried since, alleviated a little, though it did not quell the disappointment.

"I truly only received the news that the bank is placing a final demand for the money we borrowed to get through the strike today, or I would have already told you. You must believe me?"

A final demand. She did not know specifically what that was, but she knew enough to figure out that there would be no chance of charity from the bank. His hands had returned to his lap and twisting as though they could not keep still and wished he might still them so that she could think more clearly. John seemed to be waiting for a reply and so she nodded, taking one of his hands in hers and running her thumb across his knuckles to calm them.

"And we do not have the money and will not have it?" She asked, when she felt she had made sense of what he was telling her. She supposed if they could not repay the loan they would be evicted to reclaim the lost money.

"We do not have it and will not." He confirmed.

"but there must be some way we can get it?" she asked, refusing to accept that there was nothing to be done. Perhaps there was some obvious answer they were overlooking. "Might business not pick up?"

His whole countenance spoke of defeat, which annoyed her far more than the situation itself. As Margaret gazed at her husband, she did not recognise him at all? Where was the man who had built Marlborough Mills into the empire it had once been?

"We only have six months. We will be able to repay the majority, but it will leave us with nothing and no chance of keeping the mill open. We are going to have to stop the kitchen- we simply cannot afford it any longer. If we do so, we should be able to keep the mill open for the full six months and save enough so that we are not completely destitute, but it will be a stretch."

He rubbed his forehead as though recounting the details were causing him a headache began to remove his cravat. For once, easily untying the knot and slipping it off rather than asking her for help.

"There must be something we can do?" asked Margaret, refusing to give up hope. It could not be correct that it was a foregone conclusion that they would lose the mill! "We could take on more orders, work longer hours. If we told the workers, I am sure they would understand and put in more time!"

"It is not about the orders. It is too late, Margaret!"

His words implied he was growing frustrated with her, yet there was no sign of such frustration in his demeanour and tone, which infuriated her further.

"Too late?" She asked incredulous. "So, you have given up?" She was almost shouting now at his despondency. "Then you must have known this was coming. Why did you agree to change the terms of our agreement if you knew this might happen?"

"I wanted to make you happy. And I had truly thought that if we only kept the mill going through the winter, we might recover, but I cannot lie to myself and you any longer. The mill will not recover; it was hit too hard by the strike and then the winter."

It was completely pointless to shout at someone who made no move to shout back and Margaret felt a little ashamed of herself as she regarded the man in front of her. She had seen him angry, embarrassed, impassive, but never had she seen him in the state he was in now. He seemed somehow smaller, his body hunched over and his head in his hands. He was a broken man, defeated and despairing and Margaret wished he was angry instead. She would have taken the man on the day of the strike, a man so full of resentment towards the strikers over this one.

Margaret thought of all she knew about the man who was her husband, all his mother had told her, and all her father had told her, and her anger started to leave her. If he had accepted this situation then there must truly be no other way out. She let that thought wash over her. They would need to leave the house, live on barely anything and he would need to find another job. There was no telling how long it would take to rebuild what they would lose, but Margaret knew it would be years if it was possible at all.

"Have you told your mother?" She asked quietly.

He shook his head.

"I have failed her, and I have failed you. I knew there was trouble ahead when I married you and yet I brought you into this situation anyway. The only blessing here is that Fanny is taken care of."

Margaret's heart ached as she realised how sincerely he believed his words, that he was a failure.

"This is not your fault. We will tell her together." She said firmly.

He nodded into his hands, and Margaret got the distinct impression he was trying not to cry.

She grasped his shoulders and made him look at her.

"You are not a failure, John! You are the most hardworking and caring man I know, and I am proud of you for all you have done and continue to do. I know your mother and I do not agree on many things, but on this matter, we firmly concur."

Somehow, she knew he would not allow himself to cry, but undeniably there were unshed tears pooling in his eyes as pain crossed his face.

"but I cannot fulfil our new agreement. It would be possible, of course, but extremely unwise to try to bring a baby into nothing, a family with no way to pay medical bills."

Margaret thought about that and felt a jolt of sadness as she remembered the Watson's and Edith's happy news and that she and John would not be joining in their happiness for the foreseeable future. It hurt a little to admit that he was right and that it would be a foolish idea to pretend they could, but she would have to accept it.

"Is that why you stopped me earlier?" She asked, blushing at the memory of how much she longed for him to say that they should damn the party and keep doing what they had started. "Is that why you said we can't…" She swallowed deeply, forcing her eyes to hold his, rather than look away as they longed to.

He nodded sadly, and his eyes scrutinised the neckline of her dress desirously.

"I did not want you to think I don't want to do that with you! I do. There are ways to still do that and limit the chance of a baby, if your reasons for wishing for that were different…" he trailed off taking a deep breath and forcing his eyes back to her face. "But I couldn't continue without you understanding that if we do that it cannot be for the reason you want."

Was it wrong that as much as she had wanted to have a baby, to have joined Edith in cooing over their children, her disappointment when he had stopped her earlier had not solely been about that at all? When she had imagined them being together as husband and wife, the thought of children hadn't always been there. Margaret could feel her cheeks flame as she allowed herself to admit that perhaps there was another reason to desire such intimacy with him, a feeling that grew the more time she spent with him and made her long for his presence when he was away from her. She had not been lying earlier when she had said she missed him. For the majority of the afternoon, since she had seen him from a distance at the mill, she had thought of his scent, the warmth of his embrace and the softness of his cheek beneath her lips and she kissed him goodbye. For weeks now she had craved to be close to him, tried to make him happy by interacting with his mother and visiting him at the mill. She would never have admitted that she had been reading one of Fanny's magazines and seen that gentlemen were often attracted to the scent of honey and borrowed some from her sister-in-law with the intent of wearing it that evening, but the wisps of hair that fell about her face and carried the scent was proof. She would also never have admitted that Fanny had once told her that he liked pale blue fabric because it matched her eyes and picked the dress she was wearing for that very reason. Did that mean that her intentions were not solely what he believed them to be? Was it wrong that she had wanted him to want her in a way that was not strictly decent to speak of? She feared she knew the answer.

"Children can wait, John. There are things more important than that." She said honestly, trying to stop her brain from focussing on such uncomfortable thought and felt her heart melting at the look of complete relief he gave her.

As her eyes raked over him, lingering at the open buttons on the top of his shirt that exposed a glimpse of skin beneath, Margaret felt the same need from earlier, a need that had been building for weeks. It was a pull towards him that made her crave his body rather than the potential outcome of being with him that she had tried so hard to ignore. This time it was relentless, desperate. It was shameful and wrong. It went against everything they had agreed, the whole point of their marriage but Margaret was not sure she had the strength to resist any longer.

"John…" She whispered, suddenly overcome by how much he must care for her as it dawned on her that he had worried first about her reaction to their unfulfilled agreement, rather than the trials to come. "You are not alone in this." She squeezed the hand that still lay in hers tighter. "We will face this together."

His eyes bore into her and Margaret wished he would kiss her, but he did not, though his face was mere inches from hers and she sighed in surrender to what she knew they both wanted as she made her decision. Without asking for permission or considering how it would change their relationship, Margaret closed the distance between them and kissed him as passionately as she could. Instantly, he was kissing her back, as though he needed her, like a drowning man needs air. He was kissing her back as though it was all he had wanted to do and had just been waiting for her to make the first move. Somehow, they were removing clothing, tossing it aside with little care and attention and this time, when he lowered her carefully back onto the mattress, pressing his weight on top of her, Margaret's could feel his heartbeat reverberate through her where their skin pressed together, synchronising with her own, as though they were one, meant to be together. Margaret knew they were approaching the point of no return and she tried to clear her screaming mind, to reassure herself they were doing the right thing. If she only let him do this, he might understand what she felt for him, might feel how much she wanted to comfort him and be with him through the trials he was going to face. If she only let him do this, she too might momentarily forget the sadness that threatened to overwhelm her as she realised how alone they were against the world, with her mother and father gone and only Hannah Thornton for help. Time ceased to exist as, rather suddenly, he wasn't just kissing her lips any longer, and she wasn't just kissing his. With each kiss or caress her skin flamed and her heart raced harder than before as she copied the way he scorched a trail across her neck and down to her chest. John did not stop, or ask her if she wanted him to stop this time, but it did not matter. If he had, she would only have begged him to keep going once again.

In the final moments, as he whispered, "I am so in love with you" and Margaret could not contain the tears that brimmed as she fully comprehended the enormity of what they had done and the truth of his words. More than anything, she wished her voice would have allowed her to say it back, but it was all too much. Even as he held her body against his in the early hours of the morning, the tears still fell, and she sobbed into her pillow as she realised she had been a fool, for weeks, months, possibly all along in thinking she could stop herself from falling in love with this man. Her father had known his friend was the only one who could make his daughter happy and he had been right. Despite her best attempts not to, she had fallen in love with John Thornton.

…

Dear readers, I hope I have managed to keep this story T rated. I know some of you will be disappointed at the lack of explicit content, but I hope it has remained plot driven, rather than becoming graphic with little plot. I suppose what I am saying is I hope I have kept it more about the plot and implied rather than explicitly stated. I hope you enjoyed it. I promise I won't make you wait so long for the next one. x


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